


come out and play with me

by perfchan



Series: it's you that's haunting me [4]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs in a Car, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Camping, Domestic klance, Established Relationship, Ghost Hunters, Hand Jobs, Happy Sex, Horror, Humor, M/M, Sensory Deprivation, god those are my three favorite tags, punky paranormal enthusiast!Keith, recovered dudebro!Lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-11-23 22:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20896982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: Alright so Keith is basically the greatest partner a guy could ask for. Lance will tell you that any day of the week. Cute ass? Check. Leather jacket? Check. Good sense of humor? Well, he tries. But thoughtful, daring, protective, kind? Check, check, check, annnnnd check.Lance is a lucky man.(Of course there is that minor issue where most of their “dates” involve spectral beings and/or demons, monsters, cryptids, ghosts. But they’re working on it!!)In fact, Lance has finally roped Keith into going on a real date. No ghosts. No cameras. Just the two of them, not being scared. At all. Nope. Nothing paranormal about button downs and fine dining. What could go wrong?*A little cheeky, a little spooky, and a little bit of a postscript. The unexpected addition to a not-too-serious ghost hunting AU.





	1. The Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> Back from the grave!!! To make you tremble, shiver, shake!! 
> 
> Me at this time last year: so this is the last ghost hunting klance fic, thanks guys!  
Me immediately after posting ‘something wicked this way comes’ and while writing every fic since: I miss ghost hunting klance  
Tbh, the boys are just too much fun not to revisit during spooky season!!  
Think of this fic as a victory lap after the main story. It takes place in the winter following the events of ‘something wicked this way comes.’ you will remember that when that fic ended, they were talking about thanksgiving, so in my mind, this is just shortly after. Buuuuut it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. All you really need to know is that Keith and Lance are stupid in love and make ghost hunting videos together. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy:

***

Lance steadies himself as best he can against the wall. He all but collapses, hands scrambling for purchase behind him. Pulse quickened and mouth dry, he takes a deep breath and manages to wheeze: 

“Oh. 

Mygod. 

Keith,” 

Keith pauses. He blinks at Lance’s outburst, hand still resting on the doorknob of their bathroom. He’s been in there all of ten minutes (compared to Lance’s forty-five) but those ten minutes must have been actual witchcraft. Because standing before Lance is the never-before-seen, ultra-rare, super-sought-after Date Night Keith, and Lance. 

Lance is a lucky man. 

“What, Lance---what is it?” 

“Fuck. Me.” 

Keith drops the hand on the door to touch one of the studs in his ears. He tucks a stray hair behind it and his eyes shift to the side. He’s trying not to look pleased and failing terribly. Lance can tell. Keith clears his throat. “I thought we were going to dinner first.” 

“Okay,” Lance hedges. He stands up properly. Keith makes a fair point. “Let me try again.” Lance raises both hands as if receiving divine communication. Closes his eyes. Wets his lips. “Fuck.” Presses his fingertips to his chest right below his collarbones and taps for emphasis: “Me.” 

This time Keith just grins and ducks his head, shaking it. He’s trying not to laugh. “C’mon.” He pushes past Lance to stalk through their apartment, grabbing his wallet and Lance’s keys off the kitchen counter. Lance trails behind him, alternating between mouthing off and showering Keith in compliments, all of which Keith ignores. Keith waves goodbye to their cats (not that Red or Black really care) and shoves the keys into Lance’s hand, finally pulling him out the door of their apartment for their dinner date. They have a reservation. 

“I’m not even hungry,” Lance tells him, once they get inside the car. 

“We have a reservation.” Keith reminds him. 

Lance sighs. 

It’s just not right. Totally unfair. How can Keith walk around looking like That and expect Lance to keep it in his pants? Just not possible. 

Keith has exchanged his normal tee shirt for a black mock neck sweater. The high collar, the way it just barely skims his adam’s apple, it should be modest or some shit, but on Keith...Lance sighs again as he drives them to the restaurant. 

(The place they’re going is downtown, a trendy little-hole-in-the-wall place that’s expensive enough to keep the college kids out. It’s reservation only and there’s an actual waiting list to get in and the food’s supposed to be  _ stellar _ . Hunk swears.) 

On Keith, the high collar of the sweater just accentuates the pale, gorgeous column of Keith’s neck and his sharp-enough-to-cut jawline. The very edge of one of his tattoos is peeking out, just behind Keith’s right ear; Lance knows from experience if he nibbles that spot, runs his tongue just there, Keith will tilt his head and let out the softest groan, even shudder under his touch. 

The thought makes Lance shift in his seat. 

Adding to the Look, it’s cold enough outside that Keith has shrugged his leather jacket over the sweater. He was wearing that jacket when they met, and almost every day since, but it doesn’t matter; Lance will  _ never _ be over it. Plus Keith is wearing his best, tightest jeans---the ones that make his ass look  _ celestial. _ Lance bites his lip. 

“Why are we going on dates again?” Lance asks him. It seems like a waste of time. They could just order a pizza, stay in, and Lance would be riding Keith in half the time. Seems like a way more efficient plan. Good time management. 

“Mmm,” Keith hums, not quite looking at Lance. He drums his fingers close to the car window. “I think it’s because I always take us to terrible places.” 

Lance considers the last location they shot for their ghost hunting videos. The Abbey was a tiny hotel, built in the forties with the aging decor to match. And an ancient elevator that still managed to rattle between floors with a grating heave---despite the hotel being long abandoned and without any electrical power. 

It was an awful night. 

But by the time they made it out---far away from the horrors of The Abbey---Lance and Keith were so keyed up that they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They didn’t even make it into bed. Keith fucked him hard and fast against the wall of their motel room, and Lance could feel the satisfaction (and the bruises) into the next week. 

“I don’t think I’d say  _ that _ ,” Lance argues, fingers tense on the steering wheel. 

“You  _ have _ said that.” Keith corrects. “Multiple times,” 

“Okay but I say a lot of things, Keith, now’s not the time to start...” Lance swallows, trailing off. Shit. Is Keith wearing cologne? Yeah. He is. It’s the spicy, deep one that Lance got him for Christmas. Fuck, it’s nice. Now that Lance has noticed, it hangs in the air between them, practically making Lance’s mouth water. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and keeps his eyes on the road. 

You know what? Fuck date night. This sucks. 

“Lance,” 

Lance flicks his eyes towards Keith and is met with dark eyes and a darker smile. “Pull over,” 

“Babe,” Lance argues. They’re not too far from the restaurant now. The streets of the small city are mostly quiet but he isn’t overly familiar with the area. It would be better to just follow the gps---and the plan. 

Keith places his left hand on Lance’s thigh. Lance bites his lip. Again. 

They have a reservation. 

Keith’s hand slides, just slightly, maybe half an inch, maybe less, closer to Lance’s crotch. His fingertips dipping to press Lance’s inner thigh. He squeezes. 

Lance pulls over. 

It’s dark, thankfully, and a weeknight, so the side street where Lance parks is quiet. 

Lance really wouldn’t have given a shit if it was broad daylight in the middle of the interstate. 

He probably wouldn’t have even noticed---the world around him pretty much collapses at the exact moment that he hears the soft click of Keith releasing his seatbelt. 

And he shifts in the passenger seat. 

And he presses the faintest kiss against Lance’s jaw before leaning forward over Lance’s lap to reach for his zipper. 

Every notch of the metal zipper coming undone feels like it’s own unique, exquisite moment. Lance is saying something but he has no idea what---he’s getting hard and he’s paying more attention to Keith than the words coming out of his own mouth. 

Keith’s short nails scrape against the denim of Lance’s jeans, pushing his thighs apart, arranging Lance how he wants him. He palms over Lance’s dick, too impatient to tease, before he tugs him out of his boxers. 

Lance draws in a breath. 

The breath becomes a whimper as Keith’s mouth---hot, so hot---takes his cock. 

“Ah,” Lance groans, shoulders rolling back as he practically melts in the driver’s seat. “Keith, shit, fuu--Ke--” His feet---the high tops he usually wears exchanged for dress shoes---slide against the mat on the floor of the car. His knees bump the bottom of the steering wheel. He groans out Keith’s name. 

Keith doesn’t respond, mouth otherwise occupied. He takes his time, beginning with a slow tease over the head, his soft lips plush on the tip. He sucks, gentle, before letting the flat of his tongue and the heat of his mouth alone overwhelm Lance. 

And Lance is overwhelmed. His left hand grips the seatbelt across his chest---he never got the chance to unfasten it---like he’s hanging on for dear life. His right is settled on the back of Keith’s neck---palm covering the sinfully pale strip of skin between the collar of Keith’s sweater and the hair at the nape of his neck. He works his fingers through Keith’s thick hair, brushing the locks over his shoulder so none obscure Keith’s face in his lap. He’s sure Keith can feel the way his hand spasms as Keith takes him deeper. 

Hand there, Lance can feel the movement of Keith’s jaw; the way his mouth works as he sucks, how his throat moves as he swallows and hums. He can see Keith’s profile, the soft hollow of his cheeks as he blows Lance, the flick of his eyes upward as he notes Lance’s expression with a keen satisfaction. 

“Fuu--ck, Keith--Ke--” Lance tilts his head back, lolling against the car headrest as coherent thought leaves him. He’s grateful for the heavy press of Keith’s weight against his thighs, forcing him to stay seated, when otherwise he would almost certainly be rolling his hips to fuck into Keith’s perfect mouth. 

The smooth motion of Keith’s head moving up and down in his lap. The sound---gagging and wet and rough and obscene. The feel of his palm, the way he strokes and tightens around Lance’s cock in time with his mouth. The smell of Keith’s cologne, now mixed with the fainter but more familiar cocktail of his cigarettes and strawberry shampoo. All of it together and soon Lance’s hand is not so much spasming as it is tugging. Fingers scrambling against Keith’s scalp as he feels himself get close. 

Keith doesn’t pull away. 

He keeps sucking, dedicated to the task, until Lance is spilling into his mouth and gritting out his name mixed with expletives. And he continues even still, while Lance squirms, over sensitive and whining. Only when he’s satisfied that Lance is truly spent, does Keith sit up and settle back into the passenger seat. 

He grabs a napkin out of the glovebox and wipes his chin. The color is high in his cheeks, flush visible even in the dark alleyway. He adjusts his jacket---he’s probably overheated by now---and patiently waits for Lance to recover. 

When Lance stays silent, half slumped, Keith ventures: “Lance?”

“Nope.” Lance lifts his ass off the seat so that he can zip his pants back up and readjust to being on this plane of reality. “Nope. Words. No. Can’t.” 

Keith grins but Lance doesn’t see it; his eyes are closed. It doesn’t matter, he can hear it in Keith’s voice: “So. Dinner?” 

“Din--Keith.” Lance sits up and flails his arms. “Dinner?! Dinner!!?” He turns toward Keith, tone severe. “Keith. I just had a goddamn  _ out of body experience _ and you’re!!” 

“That good, huh?” Keith smiles, certainly too sweet of a smile, considering. Lance decides he could probably die happy at this exact moment. 

“Babe. Baby. Keith. Dude.” Lance shakes his head. “Date night is the best idea I ever had. I’m a fucking genius.” 

Keith shrugs, affecting nonchalance. “Good so far.” 

Lance finally undoes his seatbelt so that he can lean forward and kiss him, sloppy, giving full appreciation to Keith’s  _ perfect _ mouth. He tastes filthy and wonderful and Lance wonders for the billionth time how he got so lucky. He sits up on one knee to give himself better leverage, and pulls Keith a little more underneath him. Keith rasps out a quiet “Yeah” in response, hands already on Lance’s hips and fuck if this isn’t---

Admittedly, the gear shift between their two seats is awkward and after awhile Lance is kinda getting a cramp in his leg. He has his hands underneath Keith’s sweater, but the car is close quarters and he can’t really figure out how to get him undressed properly. Honestly, they should just go home...it’s way more comfortable and---

Wait. 

Lance sits back. Removes his hands from Keith’s person.

“Keith!” 

“Hmm?” Keith pulls his hand out from under the waistband of Lance’s boxers. He also sits up a little straighter. 

“Our reservation!” 

Keith brushes the back of his hand over his glossy mouth now that Lance has pulled away. He looks slightly dazed. “Oh shit.” 

Shit! This dinner took, like, six weeks to book! Lance pulls his phone off the car charger and gives it a tremulous poke. He slumps, turning the screen towards Keith so that he can see the time. 

“Oh.” 

Lance nods. They definitely missed the acceptable window for arriving. They could still try to get in, but. Chances are, it’s a no-go. 

As if on cue, Lance’s stomach rumbles. 

Keith frowns. He leans forward, close to the windshield. He squints out into the night sky. “We could just try eating here.” 

“Huh?” 

Lance turns, leaning forward to see out of the alley into the street, following the point of Keith’s finger. There’s a bar there, the light from a single window shining faintest amber against the dark brick of the building. Lance raises his eyebrows. 

Well. 

“If Hunk asks, that other place was really good and we liked it a lot.” Lance tells Keith as they get out of the car. 

“Right.” Keith nods. He leads the way with Lance close behind. 

*

‘The Regal Beagle’ reads the large oval sign to the right of a heavy wooden door. The sign is wooden as well, white lettering against an olive background, and an image of a beagle’s head in profile. The words are legible, but the paint is chipping away, well weathered. 

Keith pulls the door open and they are immediately met with a haze of smoke and a soft, steady warble of music. It’s gentle, almost hypnotic in the way that it draws them in without being loud. Strange. 

The dimly lit room is warm against the night air, where temperatures are dipping ever closer to freezing. Lance’s coat can withstand the cold for a time---say, from the door to the car---but he chose it more for fashion than utility. He’s glad to be inside. The wooden floor creaks just so as Lance steps across the threshold and the door slips shut behind him. 

The bartender nods in greeting and Lance follows Keith in selecting one of the few empty hightops. The long room of the restaurant is far from empty, despite the hushed atmosphere and the lack of cars outside. The man behind the bar is well built and tall---taller than Lance---and when he turns, Lance can see a platinum blonde ponytail reaching halfway down his back. 

Lance leans into Keith’s shoulder and hisses: “How have we never been here before?” 

Keith tilts his head, seemingly considering. He must not be able to come up with anything because after a moment, he responds, “Maybe it’s new?” 

The olive colored walls, made tawny with smoke. The heavy frames dotting the space between tables. The staircase on the far side of the room that leads somewhere too dark to follow. 

Doesn’t seem new. 

Then again, Lance isn’t all that familiar with this part of town. There’s no reason for him to have known about this bar, it’s just. Strange. 

Lance tries not to let the weird feeling unsettle him too much as Keith slides down from the table to get them drinks and put in an order for food. This is just a normal bar downtown. He’s just being silly. Too many ghost stories, too many haunted places. The whole point of Date Night is to  _ not  _ think about shit like that. 

Right?

And even though the bartender’s smile seems to turn sinister when Keith turns to come back to the table, and even though this place doesn’t show up on googlemaps (Lance just checked), and even though the other patrons are weirdly somber, this is Date Night, and Lance is _ not _ going to be spooked. 

Right. 

It’s easy to forget that strange feeling when Keith brings back a couple of drinks and a few minutes later, a waitress appears with food that looks surprisingly decent. 

Keith tucks in, ever enthusiastic as he shovels what are basically mozzarella sticks with a fancy name into his mouth. 

And soon Lance is in rare form, enjoying himself and talking, and more than that, getting to watch the way Keith’s eyes scrunch up as he listens to Lance’s bullshit and hear his jilting giggle in response. His jacket is on the back of his chair and the sleeves of his sweater are pulled up, revealing his pale wrists and forearms in a way that seems more than sensuous. Lance reaches over the table and tugs at Keith’s hand. Keith’s gaze dips down, before he hesitantly squeezes Lance’s hand in response. He smiles, the soft one he does where the edges of his mouth turn up just enough to bring out his dimple. 

Lance is so happy in the moment that he doesn’t even realize that a couple sits at the table next to theirs. Neither of them do, until their conversation naturally wanes and they catch a snippet of their neighbors’: 

“---t’s what I think, the entire area has a freaky aura!!” 

“You know that Narti thought the same way. She even called it cursed.” 

At the word ‘ _ cursed _ ,’ the drink in Keith’s hand stops halfway to his mouth. His eyes meet Lance’s across the table. 

Lance pretends not to notice. This is Date Night. They are  _ not _ thinking about ghosts and ghouls and  _ curses. _ This is their night off. Lance continues an overly complicated anecdote involving a missing Santa suit and Maureen, his coworker at the craft store where he works. 

“---not a curse. An animal, but like, not like one that we know. This is like,” the girl’s voice drops and there’s an impossible hint of pleasure in the next word: “Blood thirsty.” 

“All those kids that disappeared.” 

“They didn’t disappear, Zeth, they were murdered.” 

Keith puts down his drink. Lance shakes his head _ , no Keith!, _ but Keith ignores that and gives him a wide eyed excited look in response like,  _ are you hearing this!?  _ The girls haven’t noticed that Keith and Lance have stopped talking. 

“Cut up into little itty bitty pieces. And probably fed to---”

“Excuse me,” Keith interrupts. 

Lance puts his head down on the tabletop and sighs. So much for Date Night.

“Is this a local legend?” Keith pulls his hand away from Lance’s, like he’s itching to make notes. He didn’t bring his trusty notebook, but Keith has a ridiculously good memory when it comes to spooks.

“Were you listening to us?” The more talkative girl asks. Her voice is playful and sing-songy, but there’s a dangerous edge there. Lance doesn’t like it. He sits up. 

Keith is a terrible liar. “No,” he says. 

“What he means is,” Lance interjects, “The movie you girls were talking about sounds really scary.” 

“Oh it’s not a movie,” the sing-songy girl trills. She’s pretty, in a severe way. Slim build with stark cheekbones that are made even more defined by the high, tight ponytail of her hair. It’s red, her hair, unnaturally so. Even in the dim light of the bar it looks saturated with color. So bright a red it’s almost macabre. 

“Not a movie,” her girlfriend echoes. She has a square jaw and broad shoulders and a buzzcut. Lance thinks that she could probably eat him for dinner and still have room for dessert. 

“You know it’s rude to eavesdrop.” Red hair says. She has a smile like a knife. 

“Right, right,” Lance agrees, with his best I-don’t-want-to-be-eaten-today smile. “I keep telling him that! Just yesterday, I said, ‘y’know, Keith,’” 

“I’m well versed in all the local folklore,” Keith interrupts. “But I haven’t heard anything exactly similar to what you were talking about. Can you tell us more?” 

Buzzcut looks to Red Hair and falters. “Love,” she says, addressing her in a surprisingly tender tone. The diminutive falls sweet from her lips, despite her rough appearance. 

Red Hair tosses her ponytail and gives her girlfriend a flippant tilt of the head as if to say,  _ I’ll do what I want. _ She turns back towards Keith. 

He’s leaning forward, very much interested. 

“Are you _ sure _ you wanna know?” 

Lance almost has to scoff. If she had any idea about the shit they’ve been through in the last two years---fuck. 

Keith nods, solemn. Yes, he’s sure. 

The girl’s smile seems to grow only more wicked as she tells them about an animal, or is it more of a beast? Or something else? They say it resides deep, deep in the forest. It’s big. There’s black eyes, people say, staring down like coal burning within the upper branches of the trees. Fur, sometimes black, sometimes gray, sometimes a sullied brown. Heavy prints in wet ground indicate claws, but there’s no way those are real---they’re simply too wide, too lumbering, given how fast it can fade from eyesight. It’s never been seen clearly---the trees cover is too thick there, the area too wild. 

Ten miles south of that forest, there is a town. It’s small. And thirty years ago, almost exactly thirty years to this day, seven children went missing from that town. Local law enforcement combed the area---the search made the nationwide news circuit---but it was unsuccessful. The broad swaths of wilderness are one thing, but they were racing against time as well: after the first heavy snowfall, hope dwindled. 

And when spring arrived and the frost lifted, there was still no trace. 

The official conclusion is that the children were kidnapped. Murdered. 

But locals tell a different story. About someone, something else, that lives in that forest. And how that person  _ takes  _ to satisfy the creature. Because the alternative. Is worse. 

“One of our friends,” Buzzcut says, “She likes that monster hunting, bigfoot kinda shit,” 

“She had this crazy plan to hike up there and see if she could catch something on video,” Red Hair tells them. 

“And did she?” Keith asks. He’s normally reserved around people he doesn’t know well. But Lance can see it---the enthusiasm shimmering in his eyes. He’s burning with unasked questions. 

Buzzcut scoffs. “No. Axca can handle her own. She’s no weakling. But that area is not right. She fell.” She amends. “Or something pushed her.” 

“Her arm was broken in three places,” Red Hair adds. The way she says it gives Lance a prickly feeling on the back of his neck. That wasn’t concern for a friend in her voice. That was something close to pleasure. Sadistic. 

Lance misses the reason why, but suddenly both girls look towards the bar. He follows their gaze, but the bartender is the only one there. The domineering man has an unreadable expression on his face. 

The bigger girl gets up first, without saying anything to close the conversation. When the other girl glides down from her perch at the hightop table, she pauses. 

“You should definitely check it out, if you’re this interested in it.” She smiles, not at all kind. “I think you’d be  _ super  _ cute sliced up into little pieces,” she says, reaching forward to tap a curled finger underneath Lance’s chin. He recoils, the unexpected touch making him scoot back in his seat. His reaction seems to tickle her. “Buh-bye,” she sing-songs, and wiggles her fingers in a wave. 

With a swish of her long ponytail, she follows her girlfriend to the bar. Lance looks to Keith---he’s bristling in anger---and when he looks back to the bar, both girls are gone. 

“What. The fuck.” 

Keith sets his jaw. He frowns down into his plate. Deep in thought. 

The dinner date doesn’t really have the same mood after that. 

Later, they get back in the car. Lance pulls the door shut and breathes on his hands. Fuck, it’s gotten cold. Next time he goes out, he’ll definitely be bringing gloves. Maybe a scarf too. Besides the low whoosh of the car heater, working to warm them, silence hangs between Keith and Lance. It seems almost oppressive after the warbling background music of the bar. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Lance sees Keith open his mouth to say something. Lightning quick, Lance claps a still-cold-hand over the bottom half of Keith’s face. “Ah-a-ah! No! Nooo, don’t you da---Keith!! Don’t. Say it.” 

Keith crosses his arms. “Mmur mmb snn nnthng.” 

Which Lance can translate to: “I didn’t say anything.” 

“You were thinking it!!” He accuses. 

He removes his hand from Keith’s mouth (with a stern look and wag of his finger in warning) and shifts gears to back out of the alleyway and head home. 

“Thinking what, Lance!” Keith counters. He tosses his head to get the hair out of his eyes. 

“You were thinking that----noooo, noo!! I’m not gonna fall for that!!” 

Keith huffs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” 

“You know!” At Keith’s blank look, Lance continues, “You know that I  _ don’t _ want you to say it so you’re pretending not to know what _ it _ is so that _ I  _ say what you’re not supposed to say.” 

Keith slumps back in his seat, chin tucked to his chest. (He’s pouting. Which only proves that Lance was right.) “That doesn’t make any sense.” 

Lance chooses to be the bigger man and ignore Keith’s pouts (though he is extremely cute). He turns the radio up---he loves this song---and starts singing along with unabashed enthusiasm: 

_ “---took a DNA test, turns out, I’m a hundred per cent that bitch! Even whenI’mcryingcrazy---”  _

Keith sighs, but, then again. He’s used to this. 

The drive home is uneventful. 

As is the walk from the car to their apartment. Lance falls behind Keith because this is still Date Night, damn it, and he hasn’t forgotten about Keith’s  _ ass in those jeans _ . Holy fuck. 

Keith catches him looking. He raises one eyebrow. Locks the door behind them when they get inside with purposeful fingers. Tosses his jacket over the couch. Tugs Lance to their bedroom. 

“By the way.” Keith mumbles. “I didn’t say it before, but. You look…” his eyes are heavy lidded as his mouth finds Lance’s neck, only steps from their unmade bed. “Really good tonight, Lance.” 

“Do I?” Lance did put extra effort in. A button down that’s slim cut. The perfect amount of tousle to his hair. 

“Yeah,” Keith says, a rasp against Lance’s skin. His palm is heavy on the small of Lance’s back, pressing him close. 

Lance has plans to finally, finally get his tongue on that peek of tattoo on Keith’s neck. To swallow down the groan he’s sure will follow. To appreciate all the skin that his sweater is hiding. He’s caught in that idea, and the way Keith’s hips are slotted against his, 

He’s thinking about that, and what will come after, when he feels warm breath against his ear.

Keith holds him tight and whispers:  _ “It would make a good video.”  _

*

And that’s why, exactly seventeen days later, Lance is standing in the middle of the woods, half frozen, holding a map. He has no idea where they are. 

  
  


***


	2. Everything You've Heard is True

***

Lance uses both hands to spread the large fold out map over the hood of his car. He leans over it. Squints. 

That sure is a lot of...squiggly lines. Of varying thickness and colors. Connecting a fuckton of dots. And a bunch of teeny tiny words. Interspersed with big blotches of green. All of which Lance definitely,  _ definitely _ understands. Of course. Obviously. He sneaks a peek at Keith over his shoulder. 

The car is parked in one of the few spaces at this lookout point on the side of a lonely stretch of highway. Beyond the small parking lot, there’s an absurdly gorgeous view: endless forest climbing rolling hills farther than the eye can see. 

Keith is standing a few paces from the car, head tilted back to look up at the wide, hazy blue of the morning sky. It’s early enough that a misty fog still hangs over some of the higher points of the wilderness into which they are meant to be driving. (Just as soon as Lance figures out the map). The tendril of smoke from the cigarette in Keith’s hand rises like it might be on its way to join that faraway fog. 

Keith’s hand returns to his mouth, taking an absent minded drag. He’s in full roadtrip mode: leather jacket exchanged for one of Lance’s old hoodies (the front pocket definitely has at least one candy bar in it), boots slipped on just to step outside the car, the laces flopping untied, a pen for making notes sticking out of the hair piled on top of his head in a messy knot. 

He’s relaxed and happy. The entire morning he’s been telling Lance all kinds of horrific stories and swatting his hand away from the radio stations and failing to look even a little bit cool as he peers out the window, childlike excitement simmering in his eyes. 

Lance loves all of Keith, but he especially loves roadtrip Keith. 

He clears his throat. “Okay so,” Lance presses the pad of his index finger on a complicated looking nexus of lines. “We’re here.” He drags his finger clear across the map, vaguely following one especially thin blue line. “And we’re trying to get here.” 

Keith turns towards him, brows slightly furrowed. He stamps out the cigarette butt on cracked asphalt and joins Lance at the hood of the car. 

He squints. 

Shakes his head. 

Keith lifts the map, and turns it the opposite way, so that it’s upside down. Or... rightside up. Oh. 

“No...” Keith presses a sure finger down on the opposite corner of the map. He’s wearing those hideous fingerless gloves---they don’t even keep his hands warm! “We’re here.” 

“That’s not even close to where we’re going!” 

Keith nods, slow, like he’s being patient. “Yes, Lance. Neither are we.” 

“What!?” Lance presses one hand against his brow and gives Keith his best a _ re you fucking with me right now  _ face. They’ve been driving  _ forever.  _ “Are you sure? Can we really trust your navigation skills?” 

“Well Lance, of the two of us, who is the one who planned the route, and researched the location, and actually  _ knows how to read the map _ ?” 

Lance presses one frozen finger to his mouth and tries to think of a rebuttal, only to find himself drawing a blank. He deflates. “Fair point.” 

Keith smiles---closemouthed but definitely hiding a laugh---and Lance can’t resist any longer. He closes the distance between them, maneuvering to wiggle between the car and Keith. His hands find the warm skin under the bottom edge of Keith’s sweatshirt, thumbs along his hips, even as he bends just slightly to kiss into Keith’s mouth. 

Keith responds, utterly relaxed. His hands drag from Lance’s wrists, up the sleeves of his parka, pulling him close. The kiss is open mouthed and lazy, a hint of teeth, and a smile pulling at the edges. It’s one that they’ve shared many, many times before; Lance knows the pressure of Keith’s hand, now on the small of his back, just as well as he knows the taste of his mouth---bitter smoke and the last lingering remnants of syrup from the diner where they ate an extremely early breakfast. He knows the low, pleased murmur at the back of Keith’s throat, and the way his eyes squeeze shut, ever so slightly, as he concentrates, kissing Lance like it’s the most important thing and he’s determined to get it right. Every time. 

Lance knows all of this. After being with Keith for this long---well over a year now!---he knows all of Keith. But still. He feels that indescribable shiver of happiness every time he gets Keith like this. Soft and comfortable and perfect in his arms. 

Keith pulls away, eyes fluttering open to look up at Lance. “We’re still not there.” 

Lance presses one more kiss to the edge of his mouth. “I dunno, Keith.” He untangles himself from Keith’s arms and hops towards the driver’s side of the car, taking the useless map with him. He spreads his arms wide indicating the wide expanse of all this Nature surrounding the lookout spot they’ve pulled into at the edge of the highway. “Looks pretty legit to me.” 

Lance has to admit that it gets even more legit when they actually, y’know, get close to where they’re going. Thick forest surrounds the narrow roads; the roads are dry now, but with the way they wind through the ever encroaching forest, a sheet of ice would render them deadly. The radio turns to static. All at once, a pocket of homes and a few stores---entirely devoid of the trappings of modern suburbia---crops up out of the trees. They pass through the little town at the foot of the hills (‘Sugar Hollow,’ not insidious sounding at all, nope,), but that is not their destination. 

*

Lance parks the car at what seems like the very edge of the civilized world. 

No seedy motels or abandoned buildings await them tonight. Instead they have backpacks, loaded down with a tent, and sleeping bags, and food, and other supplies. They have their filming equipment and enough backup batteries to power a small city. 

“Okay.” Keith claps his hands together, possibly to warm them, or more probably, because he’s excited to hike into literal cryptid territory where they will most likely be maimed and/or killed. “We got some really nice shots from above at the look-out point, but I think this is a good place to do the introduction.” 

Lance already has the camera good to go. “Just say the word, bossman.” He purses his lips. “I would say, ‘let’s ghostbust this thing,’ but I don’t know if this is exactly ghosts.” 

Keith nods. “Yeah!! We have no idea what’s out there!!” 

He’s smiling. Like that’s a good thing. 

Lance steps forward. He’s grinning too, just because Keith’s unrestrained enthusiasm has always been a weakness of his. It’s the way it shows in his eyes, gorgeous, unfiltered delight swimming in their stormdark color. “You’re the worst,” he tells Keith. Lance is just as crazy as him, really. Because there’s no where else he’d rather be right now. He steps forward to adjust the beanie over Keith’s hair, so that their viewers will be able to see Keith’s eyes as he tells them all the horrible background info. And he zips up Keith’s coat over his hoodie, so that he doesn’t catch too much of a chill. 

Keith lets Lance fuss over him for approximately half a minute, and then he’s swatting him off and adjusting his hair and coat back the way they were. Lance rolls his eyes. 

And then they’re filming: 

“Welcome back to our channel.” 

Lance turns the camera around and gives it the smoothest of finger guns and a wink before focusing on Keith again. 

“Some of you may be familiar with the small town of Sugar Hollow, and the expansive forests that surround it. But it’s far more likely that you’ve never heard of this place. That you’re unaware of the unsettling events that took place here. And, even if you were all too familiar with its past, as are the town’s residents, you still wouldn’t be able to explain what  _ exactly _ it was that occurred those thirty years ago. 

Let’s start with the facts: Seven missing kids. Between the ages of five and nine. No relation, no connection---not school or parents or circle of friends. Some disappeared from their homes more than one hundred miles away from this place. No hard evidence as to where or how they were taken. There was an official investigation…”

Lance gets it all as Keith continues with the gruesome details. He captures the edge of forest behind him, trees so tightly packed it’s difficult to see more than several meters in the distance. He captures the slate gray of the winter sky. The hushed sounds of the woods. The soft upturn of Keith’s smile, the way his eyes dip to the lens, only to look at Lance behind the camera. The skipping rasp of his voice, the way it tangles around the words. 

Lance is an outgoing guy. But he’d stay quiet forever if it meant he could listen to Keith like this. 

When Keith is finished talking, for now, they begin their hike. They have a compass, and a map, and Keith has penciled in little stars next to the points he wants to visit in the seemingly infinite number of trees. 

There’s a trail, at first. 

And Lance is enjoying himself. He’s not exactly the biggest fan of camping and nature and shit, but he can’t deny that it feels good to disconnect from his phone (there’s no cell service this far out). His brand new hiking boots are surprisingly comfortable, and the brisk air feels refreshing on his face. When they crunch into the underbrush, abandoning the dwindling trail for good, it makes Lance feel like an explorer. 

How fun! 

Lance is in high spirits, eyes trained on Keith’s stocky form in front of him, and how cute it is that the pack is so big on his back. He’s like a determined, ghost loving turtle. 

They fall into a steady pace, and Lance’s thoughts begin to wander---

Lance starts to fantasize about the possibility that the woods aren’t even remotely cursed. Fuck, Keith might be bummed, but what if this trip just turns out to be a fun camping experience and they catch absolutely  _ nothing _ on camera? It could happen! Lance would be 1000% okay with that outcome. He also considers the logistics of sex in a tent and decides that between he and Keith, they’ll definitely be able to work it out. No prob. 

Keith continues to tromp over the uneven ground with purpose. Lance thinks they should both be cautious, and moves his gaze to the ground. He’s not trying to trip and break his legs out here! By now they’ve walked far enough that getting back to the car with a sprained ankle or worse would be a real bitch, not to mention injuries severely messing with the possibility of Getting Some in the Great Outdoors. Can’t be too careful, y’know, 

  
  


_ Clack. _

A sharp noise, totally distinct from the leaves under their boots, or the quiet rustle of the trees surrounding them, pulls Lance back to reality. He stops. “Did you hear that?” 

Keith doesn’t turn around. “Hear what?” 

Lance turns towards the direction of the noise, one hand shading the weak winter sun from his eyes. There’s nothing. Nothing but the same kind of tree, over and over. And over. Lance’s eyes scan the forest for signs of movement and he suddenly has the unnerving thought that all directions look the same. Shit. It would be so easy to get lost---

_ Clack.  _

Lance whips around. This time the noise came from directly behind him. “Okay, Keith. You definitely had to hear  _ that. _ ” 

Keith tilts his head. “I didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary, Lance. Let’s keep going.” 

Lance nods, slowly. Now that his ears are pricked for the tiniest of movements, every sound---the soft chitter of wildlife, the call of birds far above, the whisper of air moving through the tops of the trees---has him on high alert. 

They keep going. There’s no straight way through the trees, so they meander in one general direction. Lance keeps his focus on the ground, mindful of his footing. He tries to stay close to Keith. 

The woods don’t seem quite as welcoming anymore. 

His hands are sweating in his gloves so Lance tugs them off and sticks them in his pockets. He brushes the bangs off his forehead, slightly damp, though from nerves or exertion, it’s impossible to say. 

_ CLACK! _

It was closer this time. Lance lets out a little startled shout, and jumps to the side, nearly sideswiping Keith. 

Who has his bottom lip caught his teeth. 

And is trying very hard not to smile. 

“Keeeith.” Lance draws his name out, tone threatening. 

Keith shakes his head and works hard to fix his expression, frowning so intensely he looks more constipated than angry. “I think I heard it that time,” he says, very serious.

His hands are in the front pocket of his sweatshirt. Lance narrows his eyes. 

“What’s in your pocket?! Huh! Show me!!” 

Keith takes a step back. He shakes his head wildly, hands still in his lumpy pocket. “Nothing! Nothing!” 

Lance shrugs off his heavy pack and in one smooth motion lunges forward to tackle Keith. 

Keith is stronger and more solid than he looks, however, and doesn’t go down easily. “Shit, Lance!” He laughs, swatting Lance’s hands away. 

“Aha!!!” Lance shouts, victorious, elbowing Keith. He holds up his prize, having plundered Keith’s secret pocket. It is: 

A pinecone. 

“A pinecone?” 

Keith wheezes out a laugh, shoulders shaking. He retrieves it from Lance’s grip and throws it, sending colliding with a nearby tree trunk. 

_ Clack!  _

“You!” Lance whips around, but Keith is already crouched on the ground, laughing. 

“I’m gonna kill you!!” Lance shrieks, picking up a pinecone from the forest floor. He pelts it at Keith’s head. 

Keith tumbles back, unbridled laughter shaking his whole body. “You---and the---” he makes a face, meant to be mocking Lance’s terror, before devolving into giggles again. “Holy shit,” he gasps, not able to catch his breath. His cheeks are pink and actually wet from tears. 

“I’m glad this is funny to you, Keith,” Lance says, anger dwindling at the sight of him. 

Keith nods, words still mostly beyond him. “I--it--heh, it is.” 

“You know,” Lance starts, inhaling to start a really good rant about how he should totally just turn around and drive away and leave Keith in this damn forest for good, because that’s what he actually deserves, 

When, 

There’s a sound like a thud. 

It’s not so much a sound as it is a feeling. 

Keith expression pulls into something more somber and his eyes dart up to look at Lance. 

Lance nods at his unasked question.  _ Yes, Keith, I heard that.  _

It wasn’t exactly a sound. It was like reverb. Like a rumble. Like it came from the ground under their feet. 

Like something heavy. Big. 

Moving close by. 

“Camera.” Keith says, tone soft. He’s on his feet, next to Lance. 

Lance nods, edging close to him. The weak sunlight trickles through the treetops, sending speckles of light over the ground. 

Keith’s voice is steady and carrying in the quiet of the woods. “Hello---If there’s anyone out there, we’d love to meet you!” 

“I don’t know if love is the right word,” Lance mutters. 

“My name is Keith,” he calls out. “And this is,” 

The thudding rumble repeats. 

“Hey, Keith? You know what I just realized?” Lance’s voice goes from normal to shrill very quickly. “Yeah. Just decided: Fuck this.”

Keith takes a step forward. Towards the noise. 

“Fuck this, like, a lot. A whole lot. All of it. This whole thing.” 

Lance’s heart is pounding in his ears, but, it seems like everything stills. 

There’s an indescribable feeling of settling. And quiet. 

After a solid five minutes of nothing, Keith lets out a breath. 

“So that was fucking terrifying.” Lance says, turning to him. 

“It’s too bad it isn’t dark,” Keith says, at almost the exact same time. 

“Okay? What? How exactly would that have made it better?” Lance demands to know. He picks up his pack, somewhat struggling with one of the straps. 

Keith raises his eyebrows at Lance’s struggle, but Lance waves him off. (He hasn’t forgotten about the pinecones). “Uh. So. The thermal cam might’ve picked something up. We can try tonight.” 

Lance flails one arm out, and twists a little, turning, trying to wrassle the pack into submission. “I think the fuck not, Keith,” he says. “At night I’m going to be comfy cozy in my tent, dreaming of the s’mores I just ate.” 

Keith snorts, but whether it’s in response to Lance’s proposed evening plans, or his wildly flailing arms is a mystery. 

Lance slumps his shoulders. The pack hangs all wonky off one side. He gives up. “Okay. A little help.” 

Keith holds the strap of the backpack steady and guides Lance’s arm through it, like helping a toddler put on a coat. When the pack is nice and situated, Keith still has a hand lightly encircling Lance’s wrist. He uses it to gently pull Lance close, and presses a kiss against his cheek. “Sorry about the pinecones.” 

“You are not.” Lance shoots back. 

Keith smirks. 

They continue onwards. 

*

The first destination Keith has marked down on the map is a lovely little outcropping called ‘Donahue Rock.’ 

The clearing and the rocky cliff that rise out of it are surrounded on all sides by the dense forest. Now without the cover of trees, Lance feels exposed. The feeling crawls up his spine and settles at the base of his skull into something unpleasant and prickly. He turns on the camera to get some shots of the landscape, but he can’t shake the feeling that  _ something _ is watching them, from just within the treeline. Steps away, from within the forest through which they’ve been walking. He zooms in with the camera and scans the area, his mind conjuring up dark eyes boring down, and bony hands reaching from behind tree trunks, and a large shadow from a thing unseen. 

Yeah. This is. Just. The cheeriest kind of place. 

They start filming and the first piece of information that Keith gives their viewers is that Donahue Rock is where they found human entrails that the media claimed belonged to one of the victims. 

Lance winces. 

Keith tells the camera that those claims were later found to be unsubstantiated, and that the grisly remains were actually from an animal that was likely slaughtered around the same time as the murders. Perhaps by the murderer. But that’s hearsay at best. 

So cheery. 

Then he tells Lance that this is where they’ll be setting up camp for the night. 

Lucky them. 

Keith and Lance bicker the entire time that they set up the tent. Neither one of them knows what he’s doing and neither one will admit it. Eventually they dig out a diagram from the very bottom of one of their packs, and, equally defeated, sullenly refer to the manufacturer's instructions. Lance peers over the crumpled piece of paper and reads them off, step-by-step while also saying things like, “That can’t be right,” and “No, Keith, your  _ other _ left,” and “Well that’s not how _ I  _ would have done it.” 

The fire comes easier. Keith glowers because Lance starts calling him a boy scout, but he builds a miniature fire pit and arranges the wood into a little stick pyramid and everything. It’s adorable. Keith gives him the finger when Lance tells him so. 

There’s barely enough light left in the day for Lance to cook something warm over the flames. The temperature has dropped significantly, but close to the campfire it’s almost cozy. (Ignoring, of course, the noises that sound like footfall from just within the treeline.)

(Which Lance is.) 

(Ignoring, that is.) 

Night falls swiftly. Outside their little circle of light, the deep blanket of the woods surrounds them. 

From his chosen spot on the least muddy log around, Lance yawns and arches his back, stretching out all four limbs at once. Now that they’ve stopped hiking and have eaten, he’s realizing how tired he is. “You ready to sleep yet, boy scout?” 

“Uh.” Keith looks up from the notes he’s making. 

Lance narrows his eyes. “No. Keith.” 

Keith pulls out an EVP recorder. “You take the thermal cam?” 

Lance sighs. 

Together, they make their way to the top of the outcropping of rocks that’s known as Donahue Rock. It’s not exactly a difficult climb during the day, but at night their flashlights can only illuminate so much, and it’s slow going. 

This is a different kind of darkness than the kind found within abandoned movie theaters and old amusement parks. It’s all encompassing. The meager light from their two flashlights can’t hope to conquer it. Any attempt is simply swallowed up into the dark dark black. It’s a darkness so profound, it is almost primordial---as if this forest is as it was long, long ago, primal and ancient and untouched by time. It’s as if the far away town, the civilizations of the world, have simply ceased to be. 

They are alone. 

And then they reach the top, removed from the cover of trees. 

And Lance is rendered breathless. 

The night sky is clear and crisp and huge. 

The stars. Each one shines distinct, all pale glittering whites and creams and yellow, innumerable pinpricks of light swirled together. The sea of stars billows out, as far as he can see over the sky’s vast cover---deepest blue, purple, the black of darkest midnight. Nights on the beach, long drives home after dark, glimpses of space on tv shows and in photographs---every previous night sky was only the barest hint of the true picture. Lance has never seen the stars quite like this. 

He sighs out his admiration, teetering forward, eyes heavenward.

The memory comes to him as soon as he feels the brush of Keith’s fingertips over the back of his hand. Lance turns his wrist, fingers catching Keith’s, pressing their palms together: 

_ This is the best part.  _

The star show at the Galaxy Reach Museum seems like it should be a very far off memory, but it isn’t, not really. Lance can still smell the sharp, metallic air that accompanied the aging aircraft. Lance can still see the knit of Keith’s dark eyebrows following a silly quip. Hear the low voice Keith used as he shared a hidden part of himself with Lance, at a time in their relationship when that was the scariest thing. 

But Keith has only ever been brave. And Lance, from that night forward, has only ever been in love with him. 

“I wanted to kiss you. So much,” Keith says, musing. His face is still upturned, eyes focused on the stars above. Remembering. His voice marks the dark silence, pulling Lance from his thoughts. 

Lance turns towards him. The light from their lowered flashlights isn’t enough to see Keith’s features, but Keith must think there’s confusion written over his face. 

“That night. At the museum’s planetarium.” He clarifies, voice just above a whisper. The deepest night and the revelation, shared so sincerely, demand a hushed tone. 

“Keith,” Lance breathes. He doesn’t fumble as he bends close and finds that Keith is already leaning in towards him. The camera strap slips down past his shoulder, as he pulls Keith in against his chest. They know this part too well to fumble, even blind in the dark. Keith’s nose and cheeks are cold, but his mouth is warm. Lance tilts his head, opens his mouth, deepening the kiss past memories and artificial stars. 

_ This is real.  _

The thought hits Lance like a blinding light and it makes his heart both surge and ache in his chest. It’s physical, his reaction, strong enough that Keith must feel it too. He loosens his grip, nose tip cold against Lance’s cheek as their mouths part. Lance can feel his warm exhale, the way he doesn’t move away yet, how his mouth lingers close to Lance’s. 

This is it. This is the real thing.

The us-against-the-world kind of love. The bicker-over-nothing-but-always-do-it-together kind. The certain, quiet kind. The knowing his mouth, and his hands, and his skin, and his everything else too well, but never being able to get enough kind. 

This is love. The it-doesn’t-matter-where-I-am-if-I-wake-up-next-to-you kind. The in-sickness-and-in-health kind. The forever kind. Lance realizes that he wants Keith like this forever, for all the memories and all the future. No one else. 

It’s a big feeling---big like the night sky above him and absolute like the dark around him. Only Keith. 

Lance pulls in a shaky breath and blinks against the smarting of his eyes. The stars above are more than he ever imagined and this galaxy in his chest is impossible to vocalize. This is so much. 

Keith’s hand cups Lance’s cheek. 

“You cold?” he asks, thumb soft over the edge of Lance’s mouth. 

Lance shakes his head. He holds Keith close, their chests pressed together through their bulky coats. He relaxes, letting his forehead rest on Keith’s shoulder, inhaling against his neck where thick hair is curling over his shoulder. He lets his pulse calm in that comforting smell and the feel of Keith’s arms around him. 

“Lance,” Keith says, lips against Lance’s skin. It sounds like reassurance. 

Lance nods. His heart is full. 

*

The EVP session they do at the top of Donahue Rock is largely uneventful. 

Keith asks the standard questions to the night air, hoping that their equipment will pick up the voices of the lost children, or something more insidious that might be lurking there. 

Nothing. 

Lance has the thermal cam and watches the different colors twist across the screen. 

Nothing. 

They make their way back to the tent but nothing out of the ordinary shows up on the screen. The forest is quiet in the way that forests are: rustling with sounds, but none of them overtly out of the ordinary. 

Lance crawls inside the tent first, kicking his boots off, ready to tumble into their double sleeping bag and get warm. The temperature’s been dropping since they left the car. This late it’s finally dropped below freezing. 

Keith stands outside at the tent’s zipper entrance. He pauses. The beam of light in his hand lifts to make one last pass through the trees. 

“What is it?” Lance asks, voice low. It seems like whispering is necessary in the quiet. 

Keith steps inside and zips the tent closed. He shakes his head. “Thought I saw something.” 

“Don’t tell me that, dude.” Lance says and then immediately follows with: “Like what?” 

“Nothing.” 

“No, no, you can’t just---” Lance starts. Something moves in the trees outside---just an animal!! A nice, normal animal, like a bunny rabbit, or some shit, yep, definitely---and Lance decides that nope, he is not going to try to get any more details, thank you very much. “Okay, cool. You saw nothing, sounds good.” 

“I mean, if you want to know, I have theories…” Keith says. He’s just as tired as Lance, but the edge of smirk crosses his face.

“Wow, would you look at the time, gosh Keith, it’s about time to  _ shut the fuck up _ .” Lance punctuates the words with a few heavy smacks of his palm against the sleeping bag, signalling that Keith needs to get his ass in bed. 

Keith obeys, kinda, and soon crawls in to settle behind Lance. It’s not the most comfortable bed they’ve ever occupied, but hey, even the bare ground would probably be less vile than some of the motel beds they crash in. 

Keith pulls Lance’s back against his chest with a rough, “G’night, Lance.”

Lance immediately responds by griping about how cold Keith’s fingers are when they creep under his shirt to rest on his bare stomach. But Keith just snuffles into his back and ignores him, drawing him closer, tangling their legs together. His knee is a warm and heavy weight between Lance legs. Lance feels himself start to finally thaw with the combined body heat. Despite everything, here he feels safe and warm.

He drifts off to the feeling of Keith’s puffs of breath, and the regular steady way they skim his neck. 

*

Lance wakes up abruptly---eyes wide open, staring into the dark. They don’t adjust. The darkness is so complete, he can’t even see the canvas wall of the tent not three feet away from his face. 

What. Was that. 

The noise repeats. 

Lance sits up, heart beating so fast he feels sick. 

It’s a groaning drawn out craaaack. Like sheets upon sheets of ice being shorn apart. A sharper sound than the rumble they heard earlier, but no more familiar. 

He’s clenching his jaw. Silent. Listening. When the sound cuts through the darkness once again---drawn out, like a deep breath pulling through the trees---Lance squeezes Keith’s arm. 

“Keith.” He hisses. “Did you hear that?” 

Keith sits up with a slight groan, still half unconscious as he mutters Lance’s name. He obviously didn’t hear anything. Lance repeats the question anyways, just as urgently. 

Keith slumps forward, resting his chin on Lance’s shoulder. He’s warm from sleep. 

He smacks his lips once, close to Lance’s ear, then listens quietly. 

The forest is quiet. 

Keith’s hands find their way to Lance’s hips, ready to pull him back down to sleep. 

“It was...fucking---” Lance wiggles his fingers at a loss for how to describe it exactly. “Fuck, Keith. We’re going to get murdered.” 

“Relax Lance, I’m sure it’s just,” Keith yawns, “ghost wolves.” 

The noise repeats except for this time it’s closer. 

Keith sits up straight. He clicks on a flashlight, and they both blink against the sudden brightness. 

“Ghost wolves, right Keith?” Lance says, twisting around to get closer to him, legs scrambling in the sleeping bag. He puts Keith between himself and the entrance of the tent. 

“Ghost wolves, my ass,” Keith responds, pulling on a coat and grabbing a camera. He grabs the zipper at the bottom of the door. “I’ll check it out. You stay here.” 

“How many times have I told you,” Lance stands up, hunched in the tent. “No. Splitting---” 

There’s the sound of the zipper pulling as Keith opens the door, 

And then he stops. 

Because that’s…

Keith’s eyes are wide when he turns to Lance. 

As soon as the two edges of zipper parted, the faint sound of children’s voices can be heard drifting through the trees. They’re singing. 

***


	3. Bring Your Dollies Three

***

Lance is right behind Keith as they step out of the tent. He’s armed with only a flashlight and camera. 

The song is faint, too far in the distance to make out words or melody. 

But it’s definitely there. 

“Fuck me, wh-what the fu-fuck,” Lance stutters out, shivering. His teeth are chattering and his hands are shaking and his heart is loud in his ears. “Keith. What the fuck is that?”

Keith tucks his own flashlight under his chin to free up one of his hands. He reaches over and grabs Lance’s wrist behind him, giving it a reassuring squeeze. It’s the briefest of touches, and then he’s dropping Lance’s hand to retrieve his flashlight. He sweeps the weak amber light over the imposing treeline that surrounds them. His other hand is holding the EVP recorder above his head like a beacon. 

“With just our ears we can’t make out what the song is, or understand any of the voices,” Keith narrates to the camera he assumes Lance is holding behind him. 

(He assumes right. Lance is not at all happy about it, but yeah. Fuck if he’ll miss this). 

“But hopefully our tech is picking something up we can analyze later,” Keith continues, walking farther away from their tent. 

Lance follows him, eyes wide in the dark. 

It’s impossible to tell where the singing is coming from. It’s all around them, too faint to track. The song stops for the briefest of moments, and then resumes, the same song, one more time. 

Is it closer now? Louder? 

“I don’t know about you, K-Keith,” Lance says, 

He can see his breath, 

Keith turns around and Lance takes the opportunity to shine the flashlight directly in Keith’s face. Lance continues, “But I’d rather  _ not _ get killed by the demon children and or/the monster and/or freeze to death right now.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I’m talking about you wandering around in the freezing cold and dark waving that thing around!!” 

Keith blinks at the light and squints his eyes and hunches his shoulders. His whole face is scrunched up like he ate a sour candy---but he’s not at all disturbed by the sound they’re hearing. This guy. What the fuck. “Okay, okay, Lance. Stop blinding me!!” 

Lance waves the flashlight. “Promise me we’re not going to do anything stupid.” 

Keith looks confused. “We never do anything stupid?” 

Lance heaves in a breath. Okay. The sound of singing is faint. It’s not coming any closer. Probably just the wind or some shit. The big, terrifying cracking sound hasn’t repeated since the singing began. “Okay. Plan: Let’s go back in the tent,” he motions to the tent, “Where it is nice and warm and  _ safe _ ,” Lance emphasizes the ‘safe’ part, “And tomorrow, when it’s  _ light,” _ he motions to the sky, “We can go back to the  _ car _ and pretend this never ever happened. Sound good?” 

Keith doesn’t answer. 

“Hellllllloooooo. Earth to Keeeeeith. Anybody home?” 

“They stopped.” 

Lance shuts up. The faint carrying of voices has disappeared. The rustle of the wind in the trees settles, and the forest is still. 

The two of them stand there, stock still in the dark. 

Lance pans the camera over the trees, trying hard to maintain a good shot despite his shaking hands. He swears he sees something retreat, something big, something just at the edge of where his flashlight can reach, just out of sight. Terror crawls up his throat. He holds his breath, still listening, still straining to see deeper into the dark. 

The forest is as motionless as death. 

Keith drops his arm, turning the EVP recorder off. He turns to Lance. 

Lance swallows down the fear as well he can and drags Keith back into the tent. Sunrise is hours and hours away. 

They don’t sleep much after that. 

*

In the morning, 

When Lance finally commits to being awake and upright, he wants three things: 

  1. A shower. Not just any shower. He wants this shower to be sparkling clean. He wants it to be well stocked with: a nice scrub for exfoliating, a shampoo and conditioner that will define his curls instead of making them frizzy, and a silicone based lubricant that’s not gonna immediately disappear down the drain while Keith bends him in half and fucks him. (This theoretical shower is big and Keith is with him and they are horny.) He wants there to be fluffy towels nearby. 
  2. A cup of coffee. A big mug filled to the brim with something strong and piping hot. A dark roast. Cream and sugar nearby for Keith because he’ll only drink coffee if it’s disgustingly sweet and mostly milk. 
  3. His car. His beautiful, wonderful, perfect car. That drove him away from the Milford estate and the airbnb disaster and Alto Hills and a million other places. And would drive him away from this place too. Plus, Lance now has very good (and recent) memories of being blown in the front seat. So. Yeah. 

Lance gets none of these things. 

Instead he gets an extremely crusty feeling face and a chalky protein bar for breakfast. He’s cold. His legs are sore from hiking all day yesterday. His body aches from sleeping on the ground. They are miles and miles away from civilization and there is something incredibly disturbing in the woods that is probably going to murder them in the next 24 to 48 hours. 

Camping sucks. 

Lance has no comment when Keith gives him a gentle, sleepy smile after finishing his morning cigarette and tells him good morning. 

He crosses his arms when Keith lays out the map and explains---evidently  _ he’s _ not at  _ all _ tired---how they can hit at least one more landmark while circling back around. They plan to return to the car by nightfall. 

Lance remains stubbornly cranky and silent while they pack up their camp, despite Keith’s obvious---if painfully awkward---attempts to draw him into conversation. (“Hey---um. Lance? Just wondering. Have you seen my gloves anywhere?”)

By the time they actually start walking for the day, the mood hangs sour between them. Keith has stopped trying to get him to talk, and so the only sound is the crunch of their boots on the forest floor. Keith still takes the lead, but his pace is more hesitant today and he keeps checking to see if Lance is keeping up. 

The fifth time he turns around, Lance looks up from his feet long enough to snap, “I’m here, okay? Stop staring at me!” 

Keith scowls. “I wasn’t staring.” 

“Yeah, well. Coulda fooled me.” 

“We’re headed back to the car, Lance!” Keith is gritting his teeth, obviously trying to restrain his temper. “I don’t know what else you want from me!” 

“I don’t want anything, Keith!” Lance shouts, which is a lie. He wants a lot of things, but mostly he wants to be not here. 

Keith glares at him, visibly considering shouting something back before he decides against it. Instead he turns around, says something under his breath and picks up the pace. 

Lance feels real, bitter anger rise in his chest. He loves to tease Keith, but he hates to really fight with him. They had felt so close last night under the stars. Stupid woods with stupid ghosts is ruining everything. Hands clenched tight on the straps of his backpack, Lance glowers. 

“Fuck this place.” Lance mutters, trudging along after him. Keith doesn’t turn around. Lance says it louder. “Fuck this place!!” 

“These creepy trees are giving me the creeps!!” Lance shouts, jabbing a finger at the closest one, as if this one tree in particular is at fault. He’s decided that since being moody and quiet didn’t make him feel better, airing his grievances is the next thing. “And!! My bag is heavy as  _ fuck, _ which doesn’t even make  _ sense _ since you wouldn’t let me bring any of the cool shit civiliziled people bring while camping!!” 

(The ‘cool shit’ refers mostly to a portable ice cream maker that Lance was going to order online and have rush delivered for their trip. Softserve out on the trail? Tight as fuck. Keith was almost swayed when he saw that it could do chocolate, but in the end, he told Lance that they had to be sensible and only bring the “necessities.” Psh. Like Keith is ever “sensible.”) 

Keith snorts. 

“Laugh all you want Mr. I Want to Walk Ten Thousand Miles Out in the Middle of Nowhere and Do It Without Ice Cream!” Lance snarks. 

“Lance…” 

“Nope! Nope! Don’t want to hear it Keith!!” Lance stomps ahead of him, ignoring Keith. He has no idea where he’s going but they’ve been walking in the same direction all fucking day so it’s not rocket science. “These are GHOST KIDS and if there’s one thing I know about kids, it’s that they love ICE CREAM.” Lance smacks the back of his hand into his other palm to really drive the point home. “That ice cream maker probably woulda saved our lives!!” 

“We’re not dead,” Keith interjects. 

“Yet!” Lance corrects. “And you know what really sucks, Keith? You really wanna know?” 

Keith doesn’t say anything but Lance glares at him so he raises his eyebrows in mild question. 

“When they find our bodies, I’m not even going to be hot!” Lance wails. He drags his hands down his face. “My pores are disgusting and my hair is all gross and, and! I just look terrible!!!” 

Keith shakes his head. “No you don’t.” 

Lance stops and stares at him. 

Keith shakes his head. “You don’t.” 

Lance narrows his eyes. 

Keith coughs. “Uh. You look. Good. Outdoorsy. Like a L.L. Bean catalog.”

“What.” 

Keith is an excellent boyfriend, but he’s not huge on compliments. He’s the type to bring an unexpected gift home, nothing big or over the top, just a little something that reminded him of Lance or because he thought it would make Lance happy. He’ll listen to Lance rant without the need to add unnecessary commentary or try to fix the problem. He’s the type to turn Lance’s favorite show on netflix after Lance has had a shitty day at work. He’ll give Lance space if Lance needs it. Tell him to spend an afternoon with Hunk or Pidge or call his mom if it would help him. He definitely appreciates Lance’s body---Lance knows this for a fact. But not because Keith told him so, exactly. He’s an actions more than words kind of guy. And he definitely doesn’t give many compliments. 

Lance lets the words process and tries to parse exactly what Keith could mean. He can’t imagine. He repeats himself. “What.” 

Keith hesitates. He looks at Lance waiting patiently and sort of wets his lips and then says, “Um. Jan---she was one of the ladies at the home---wore a lot of puffy vests.” Keith motions to his chest like Lance might be unsure about the vest part. “From L.L. Bean. So she got the catalog.” 

“Keith.” Lance is legitimately flabbergasted. (And also so happy? Because Keith  _ never _ talks about his childhood. And definitely not about the foster homes he grew up in.) “I look like...Wait. Wait a minute.” Lance holds a hand up. He thinks he gets it. A slow smile spreads across his face. “Did little Keith have a crush on the L.L. Bean models?” 

“No!” Keith’s face flushes, right at the highest point of his cheeks and the tips of his ears, indicating that as a pre-teen he  _ definitely  _ thought the bland outdoorsy dudes in the sportswear catalog were cute. “I didn’t!” 

Lance poses with one of his hiking boots on a big rock and puffs out his chest. “Keith. Be honest. Does this do it for you?” 

Keith scoffs. “I’m not answering that.” 

“Hand me the compass---oh oh, no, hand me the compass and a stick. A really big stick, like a walking stick---c’mon---” 

Keith walks away, but Lance keeps going, jogging to catch up with him: “Damn, Imma have to watch it the next time we go to a sporting goods store, I don’t want any of these outdoorsy dudes stealing my man. That place is like L.L. Bean central, I---” 

“They just looked  _ nice _ !!” Keith hisses, pushing Lance and his gloating face away. “Lance!!! It doesn’t have anything to do with---” 

“Oh no, oh no no no. You can’t fool me. Admit it Keith, you love this ass in Wranglers.”

Keith snorts out a laugh. 

And then Lance is grinning and prancing along and running his mouth and acting like an idiot and it’s only about thirty minutes later when he realizes, 

Oh. 

Keith cheered him up. 

*

The woods are not kind any more. 

Yesterday, when they first started out, the speckled sunlight fell through the trees, and it looked friendly. Patterns playing on the ground, accompanying the crunch of their boots through the underbrush. 

Today the light is hazy. The blue sky----where they can see it through the tree tops---is desaturated, white and overcast. It’s grim. Colder than it was. 

Yesterday, the ambient noise of the wildlife chittered and rustled and buzzed around them. The forest breathed life in the normal way that expanses of nature do---bright and constant, humming through the air. 

Today, the sounds have stopped. It’s eerily quiet. No call of birds or insects. The only sound is Lance’s breaths and the sounds of Keith walking ahead of him. 

The silence makes it all the more jarring when the noise breaks through the trees. 

It’s coming at intervals now, not quite regular. A cracking, groaning, rumble that echos so loud it shakes the ground under their feet. It has Lance on edge---he doesn’t know when the next time the noise will sound. He doesn’t know what is making the noise. And he doesn’t know if it’s getting closer. 

And though there is no sound or sight to verify it, he cannot shake the feeling that something else is following them through the trees. 

*

“Lance.” 

Lance slows to a stop. He’s been plodding along, one foot in front of the other, for what feels like days now. After the temperature dropped last night, it never seemed to warm back up. His toes feel like ice, his face feels chapped from the cold. At the same time, they’ve been hiking at a decent pace, and underneath all the layers he’s wearing, sweat beads down his back. He didn’t know that he could be both freezing and sweating at the same time. 

Keith hands him a water which Lance accepts with a quiet thanks. He’s not in a Mood anymore, just tired. Without bothering to take off his backpack, he flops down on the ground. He sinks into a slouch, the crown of his head sliding down the pack, until his arms are left at an awkward angle because of the uncomfortable straps. He doesn’t really care. It’s whatever. 

The groaning rumble has cut through the forest air no less than six times since they left camp this morning. Lance finds himself keeping track without meaning to. Four in the last couple of hours---it’s happening with greater frequency as the daylight wanes. 

Keith sits down next to him. His face is drawn, expression tight. 

He doesn’t waste any time in telling Lance what’s bothering him. Why they stopped: 

“We’ve been here before.” 

Lance swallows. 

Keith doesn’t look at him. “I noticed. I--I thought I noticed about an hour and a half ago.” He has the compass in his hand, turning it gingerly between his fingers. “We should be---we’ve been heading due southwest since we left Donahue Rock this morning.” He raises his eyes to look at Lance. “We should have reached the car by now.” 

Lance sits up. 

Keith continues, “We’re walking in circles, Lance. I don’t know how. I’ve been paying attention to the compass and the direction, double checking the map. But. I--we---the camp we made last night. I think it’s only about ten minutes away from here. We’re practically right where we started. And---” Keith cuts himself off. His mouth works, his hands are fidgeting---Lance has never seen him like this on a shoot. Never. Keith drops his hands on his lap and lets out an unsteady breath. “Say something.” 

He knows that Keith probably expects him to freak out, to swear, to shout. Maybe to get angry. But Keith looks so apprehensive as he meets Lance’s eyes. 

This is Keith, shaken. 

“Are.” Lance has to clear his throat. He does so, and the words that follow are steady. “Are you sure?” 

Keith blinks, surprised at his response. He scoots closer to Lance and nods, smoothing the map out over the ground between them. One finger hovers over the crinkled paper as he shows Lance the course they’re supposed to be taking. 

Keith is right. It doesn’t make sense, but somehow, despite walking all day, they haven’t gotten anywhere, made any progress. 

_ Something is keeping them here.  _

The thought comes to Lance out of nowhere and it makes all the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. 

But. 

That’s crazy, right?

Lance pulls his phone out of his pocket---no service. Of course. They have a backup charger so he has battery life left, but it doesn’t do him any good this far out in the woods. He shoves the phone back in his coat pocket. Takes a deep breath. And makes a decision. 

Okay. 

Here’s the thing. 

Lance knows that he’s a giant wuss when it comes to ghosts and all the supernatural fuckery they film on a weekly basis (new episodes posted every Friday, and sometimes a bonus vid goes up on Tuesday---be sure to subscribe and hit the bell notification so you never miss an upload!). But, spooky bullshit aside, you know what Lance is not shitty at?

Being a kickass boyfriend. 

And if Keith needs him, he sure as hell is gonna step the fuck up. 

“Okay.” Lance claps his hands. “First thing.” 

Keith looks at him. 

“You know what I could really use right about now?” 

Keith shakes his head. 

“Well,” Lance raises his eyebrows and purses his lips. “To be honest, about a million different things. But. The first and most important thing, I really, really need.” He grins at Keith. “Is something sweet.” 

Keith blinks. 

“Yeah, I mean.” Lance shrugs. “Trail mix would be good. Maybe a Snickers bar. A KitKat. Peanut M&Ms. A Hershey bar with almonds---” 

Keith unzips his coat to reach into the little pocket inside, the one that’s probably made for keys or something. He pulls out a candy bar. “Like this?” 

“Ah. Perfect” Lance takes the Twix that Keith hands him and opens it, handing one of the bars to Keith. 

Keith ducks his chin and gives Lance an exasperated smile, like,  _ okay, Lance, I get it.  _

Lance eats his, thinking about what they can do. This is some Bermuda triangle type shit, maybe. Hocus Pocus. The compass doesn’t work. But the freaky shit that’s going on down here can’t change the  _ sun.  _

He looks up. They can get to a clearing with less tree coverage, but even still, it’s so overcast. And Lance doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. Using the sun to navigate is gonna be tough. Lance relies on his gps for everything. He’s not a fuckin’ salior or map expert or something. His sense of direction is mediocre at best. At least, when the sun starts to set, the direction will be obvious then. 

But what good will that do them when it gets dark so fast out here?

“This is America.” Lance tells Keith out of nowhere. 

Keith sucks the last bit of chocolate off the tip of his index finger. “Uh. Yes? It is?” He cautiously agrees. 

Lance stands up and waves his arms. “You can’t get lost in America!! It’s too fucking overpopulated with, like, Starbucks, and shit.” 

Keith raises his eyebrows. “We seem to be doing a good job of it.” 

“Yeah, plus,” Lance continues, completely ignoring him. He starts to pace between the tightly packed trees. “Shiro knows we’re out here. He would never let you down. Never. And Hunk’s got my back. He’s probably worried sick. Better yet, _ Pidge _ knows we’re out here. Last time I checked, they can track  _ anybody. _ They’ve probably been watching us wander around all day, like they’re playing the Sims. They’ll probably send their cyber buddies to come save us any minute.” 

“...Probably,” Keith agrees in a voice like he’s reasoning with an insane person. 

“Yeah, so.” Lance gives him a wink. “Don’t you worry, Keithy. Everything is gonna be A-OK.” Lance’s ‘OK’ sign morphs into finger guns. “Lancey Lance, your smokin’ hot---”

The noise rumbles through the trees and under their feet. 

The noise is changing---it seems the more times they hear it, the more insidious it becomes. 

(Closer? Is it because it’s getting closer?) 

It began as a low, distant rumble. Last night, blanketed in the quiet, the sound was more distinct. A long, drawn out crack, sharper than the initial sound. It’s different today. 

It’s palaple now, the sound. 

The way that one, droning, drawn out note shakes the trees around them. Lance thinks that he can feel it on his skin, the way the vibration hovers through the air and gives him goosebumps. 

“Hey you noisy bitch!!” Lance stomps his foot. “I was mid pep talk over here!!!!!” 

Lance holds his breath after the outburst, as if the thing making the noise might respond. 

The woods settle. 

Lance looks to Keith. He’s tense at Lance’s side, eyes searching through the trees. His mouth is drawn tight. 

“Stop clenching your jaw, babe,” Lance tells him, knocking their shoulders together. 

Keith nods, his shoulders dropping. 

Lance gives him a smile. “We’re gonna get out of here. Together. You and me.” 

They continue onwards. 

*

At twilight, they get out their cameras again. 

There’s no script for this. 

Keith tells the lens that they attempted to reach the car but it seems that they only managed to become more turned around. Despite any attempts to escape, they’re lost. 

He tells the camera that they’re fine on supplies, that they could theoretically spend another week out here (Lance shivers) but...the noise in the woods is growing stronger. 

Lance’s eyes drift to the treeline behind Keith and their tent. Two glints of light meet his. Lance’s mouth goes dry. They hold his gaze. He adjusts the camera’s focus, zooming in on the eyes---not that it can be eyes, those two specks reflecting the light of their campfire back to him. They’re too high in the trees. Too unblinking. Too cold. 

They can’t be eyes. 

Lance looks down, fumbling to adjust the focus. 

Keith turns to look at what Lance is staring at. 

But the eyes are gone. 

They don’t return, although Lance keeps looking towards the trees and imagining he sees them there. 

*

Later, when the cameras are off and beside them in their tent, when the fire has been extinguished, and the dark is all around, 

Lance can’t sleep. 

Big surprise there. 

Keith is lying against him, Lance pulled close to his chest like they were the previous night. They usually start out that way, but more often than not, by the time Lance wakes up, he’s asleep on his back and Keith is half curled over his chest, face tucked into Lance’s neck. Lance loves waking up like that. 

Lance sighs. He wants to wake up in their bed at home. All of this a bad dream. His fingers play absent minded over Keith’s wrist, where his arm is looped over Lance’s stomach, just like the previous night. He lets his hand slide over the back of Keith’s hand, running his index finger over Keith’s. Keith’s hand relaxes under his touch, but he shifts behind Lance in the sleeping bag. His hips are behind Lance’s; he pulls him close, not quite asleep or awake. Lance exhales an audible breath when he feels that Keith is half hard in his sweatpants. 

It’s not exactly scandalous---Keith probably doesn’t even realize. He snuffles into Lance’s back and presses his hips into Lance’s ass, trying to get comfortable enough to truly fall asleep.

But Lance can’t sleep. At least not yet. 

He presses back into Keith’s crotch and feels the exact moment that Keith notices. His hand curls against Lance’s stomach, not quite a fist. Lance repeats the motion, and Keith’s hand slides down, fingertips tucking just under the edge of Lance’s boxers. 

And that’s good, but. 

Lance shuffles in his arms turning around to face Keith. It’s so dark he can’t see whether his eyes are open or closed, even at this short distance. 

Lance sits up. 

He can hear the swishy satin-y sound of the sleeping bag being rustled. The soft sound of Keith rolling onto his back, “Lance, what’re you---” 

The question gets cut off as Lance leans down to kiss him at the same time that Keith sits up on one elbow. Their foreheads knock together. 

“What the--Lance!!” 

“My bad,” Lance grins, rubbing his forehead. 

“What’s wrong. Did you hear---ah--” 

Lance cuts the question off with a gentle press of his palm, right over Keith’s cock. 

He leans forward, this time judging the distance better---well enough to press a kiss to the bottom of Keith’s jaw. “Want you,” he mouths over Keith’s ear, with a squeeze of his hand that leaves nothing up to interpretation. 

“Here?” Keith asks, more incredulous than turned on. 

“Here,” Lance confirms, pressing closer. 

“Seriously?” Keith asks again. He has one hand flat against Lance’s shoulder, as if to hold him in place, but there’s no strength in it. 

“Why not here,” Lance asks, teeth nibbling at Keith’s neck, slowly moving towards his chest. He’s doing his best to set a  _ mood  _ here, not that Keith is helping. 

He can hear Keith swallow, feel the shudder of his throat under his mouth. “Just---seems---ah, Lance---not---” 

Okay so Keith can suck Lance off in a car, but when Lance wants to go down on him in a tent, that’s  _ weird _ ? 

What the hell kinda double standard is that??

Lance is about to voice this protest, when he decides to go a different route. He drops his voice down low. “Want you right here baby, right now.” He leans close, hand working at getting Keith out of his boxers. “Out here, in our tent,” Keith’s cock is free; Lance thumbs over the head, feels it twitch in his hand, “Just like we’re on a two page spread of that 2001 L.L. Bean catalog.” 

Keith chokes and Lance drops his head to Keith’s shoulder, unable to stop the snicker at the image and also Keith’s squawking outrage. Keith pushes Lance off, 

And Lance sprawls out, flat on his back, shoulders shaking he’s laughing so hard. 

“Lance!!” Keith growls even as Lance’s peals of laughter grow louder. 

Keith crawls over him, one hand moving up his shoulders to cup his cheek in the dark, “You are just---” 

Lance wraps his legs around Keith, pulling him down. Keith huffs against his face, but then he’s kissing Lance, open mouthed, grinding his hips down. “Yeah,” Lance tells him, enjoying the friction. He cants against him, losing the rhythm of the kiss in favor of panting against Keith’s mouth. 

“You are so---hnn---Lance. I swear, I’m never going to---” 

Lance groans at the contact, but it’s not enough. He has his hands at the small of Keith’s back, running them up to his shoulder blades. “Keith---” 

Lance wiggles around, searching blindly for his bag in the dark with Keith still half on top of him. He pulls it over, even as his back arches at the pinch of Keith’s teeth on his chest---Keith has his shirt pushed up and is working mercilessly at one of his nipples. 

Makes it difficult to grab the lube. 

But grab it Lance does, and Keith sits up. There’s just the sound of Lance getting situated, one hand sliding down Keith’s arm to reorient himself in the dark. He finds Keith’s mouth again just in time to swallow down the hoarse, “Fuck, Lance,” that Keith breathes as Lance settles in his lap. 

“Mmn,” Lance sighs against Keith’s lips as he gets comfortable in the place that he loves best. 

The top of the lube gets uncapped one handed, as Lance’s other hand is shoving his own shorts down. The air outside is freezing, but right now, against Keith’s thighs, Lance is anything but. 

Hand slick, Lance encircles both their cocks and begins to pump. 

He can feel Keith’s warm exhale against his skin; Keith is leaned in close at first, nose bumping Lance’s, but then he tilts his head back---Lance can tell by the soft groan of his name and the clench of Keith’s abs. Lance knows what Keith likes---his broad palm holding them together, a strong touch, impatient, fast jerks. He can tell he’s doing good work, just based on the little whines that Keith lets slip. And then, Keith is thrusting into Lance’s hands, hips bucking upwards. His hands are on Lances hips, pulling him close against him in time. 

“G-god--Lance, fu--” Keith gets out, his pace becoming less regular. 

Lance smiles, kissing at at whatever part of Keith he can reach. One of Keith’s hands loosens from his hips, and Lance manages to kiss his knuckles before Keith drags the hand down his chest. 

“Babe, you sound so good,” Lance says, after he adjusts his position. Keith’s fingers dig into the meat of his thighs. 

He’s close. 

Lance loves seeing Keith’s face when he comes.The way his eyes squeeze shut. How his head tilts, the strong line of his jaw going slack. He loves to see the way his mouth is glossy---sometimes with lube, or cum already, sometimes just with saliva---the way it’ll make his face messy. Sometimes the fine black strands of his hair get caught in the mess, and its nothing short of erotic to see Keith continue to fuck him, to not even have the prescence of mind to fix his hair. He loves to watch the soft working of Keith’s mouth around the expletive he can’t get out. 

He loves the way Keith’s dark hair falls over his shoulders, the way it curls against his neck, down past the jut of his collarbones, over the dark ink that lies in blooms over his pale skin. His shoulders will tense as he comes, and then drop, slack, even as his hips continue to work. 

Lance loves to be a witness to every microexpression, every haze of lust in his eyes, twitch of his hands before he can get them on Lance. He’s seen Keith come apart countless times since they’ve been dating. 

This is different. 

It’s the utter black of the darkness surrounding them. Like he’s wearing a blindfold he can’t remove. 

He can’t see Keith, not now, but. 

He can hear the rasp in his throat as he exhales. The low sound that precedes a groan. The intake of breath before “Ah--Lance.” 

The hush of the woods, how every sound within their tent seems amplified to Lance’s ears. 

The slick sound of Lance’s hand around their dicks. It changes minutely as he increases his pace, slows down. 

Without sight, it’s as if the  _ feeling _ has increased tenfold. 

Lance can feel the stubble against his face when they kiss, since Keith hasn’t shaved. The calluses on his fingers. The hardness of his abs. The hair on his tummy, where it starts, where it thickens, curls, 

Lance edges closer, losing coherency, 

He can smell Keith---not the spicy, artificial cologne smell, but a muskier, sticky smell. One that’s campfire smoke and cigarettes and sweat and sex. 

He can taste the salt on that same sweat on his tongue, as he pitches forward, catching Keith’s mouth in a filthy kiss. Keith has a hand over Lance’s now, trying to guide him to finishing. He’s close. He curses around Lance’s bottom lip, 

The darkness in their tent is complete, but Lance can feel exactly when Keith is about to come, the way his body tenses and relaxes, muscles slack with pleasure. 

“Keith,” Lance breathes, following him---the sensation is amplified in the dark. Maybe it’s just because he’s been stressed. Or because it’s been a few days since he got off. But as Lance comes down from it---orgasm trembling through his thighs, making his legs shake---his mind goes blank, utterly lost in it. He collapses on top of Keith. 

Keith holds him, their chests rising and falling together. 

He can hear Keith swallow, feel him unstick his hand from Lance’s skin to run a hand through his hair. 

Lance tilts his head, smiling against Keith’s neck. “The  _ great  _ outdoors,” he murmurs. 

Keith’s resulting snort is something that Lance can feel bubble through his chest. He lays there lax, just for a moment, ‘til he rolls over to grab something to clean them up. Keith takes it from him, swiping up his chest in a much more utilitarian way than Lance would have. Lance doesn’t mind. 

Soon, he’s settling back, far more relaxed than he was. He pulls Keith over his chest, gives his ass a squeeze. 

Yeah. 

Now they can sleep. 

Hopefully. 

*

Lance doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until Keith gives his arm a sharp twist. 

“Keith, wha---” Lance opens his eyes, reaching for his flashlight, but Keith’s grip tightens. 

He doesn’t say anything. 

Lance sits up next to Keith. He has a hand over Keith’s on his arm, trying to loosen his hold. “Babe, you’re hurting me.” 

“They’re surrounding the tent.” 

Lance freezes. “Who?” 

Keith releases his vice-like hold on Lance, but he doesn’t fully let go. Lance can feel him shift---he moves, so slowly, leaning over to pull a flashlight into his lap. He doesn’t turn it on. 

Lance is straining to hear, completely awake now. He can’t see anything in the dark. He repeats himself: 

“Keith. Who is surrounding the tent?” 

Lance can hear him fiddle with the flashlight in the dark. He sees the LED lights from one of their cameras---Keith must have started recording as soon as he woke up. Lance doesn’t know how long that’s been. How long Keith sat in the dark, listening to them approach. 

Keith’s whisper comes out hoarse, “I think there’s two behind us. One, maybe more on your side. The rest are from the other direction---” 

A child’s giggle. 

Lance’s heart jumps in his chest. 

“We should go outside and see if we can catch anything substantial on video,” Keith is saying. 

Lance doesn’t hear him. He’s breathing fast, thinking about escaping. There’s the shuffle of leaves outside. They should run. But---

There’s no where they can go. Not for miles and miles. They are trapped. 

And they are not alone. 

The sounds are only getting closer. 

“Oh my fucking god,” Lance’s voice comes out a whine. “Ke-Keith---” 

“The call we keep hearing---” 

The call? Is that what Keith thinks the rumble is? Lance’s thoughts race. He starts to sweat. He can hear the rustle of light footsteps around the tent. It really is on all sides. “Oh god,” 

“The call. I think they are---” He gets cut off by another noise. Keith freezes. 

Outside the tent there is a long drawn out groan. 

Not from a child. 

The groan becomes a moan, a stuttering crying. Anguished. It’s a man’s voice, wailing, jarringly familiar. 

It takes Lance a second to place it. Who---why does it sound---it’s

It’s  _ his  _ voice. 

Lance’s voice. 

Outside the tent. 

“L-Lance?” Keith is next to him. The voice outside sobs and Keith asks again: “Lance?” 

Lance has never heard Keith sound so small. 

“What---what---that---” Lance can’t think. He can’t understand. 

The wailing repeats. The voice outside is crying. 

Keith pulls in a shaky breath beside him. His fingernails are cutting into Lance’s arm. “It’s not, it’s not, it’s n---” 

Outside their tent, Not-Lance screams in agony, guttural. He’s in pain, he’s being hurt. 

Lance turns the flashlight on in their tent. 

Keith’s breath is fast and his eyes are wide and he grips Lance ever tighter. 

“Babe.” Lance soothes, ignoring his own racing heart, “It’s not me, I don’t know--but, I’m---I’m okay.” 

“Ke--Keith,” the Not-Lance screams. He’s out of breath like he’s trying to run. There’s a cracking, like bones being broken. He’s howling in pain. 

Keith starts, pulling away from Lance. “I have to---” 

“No, no,” Lance tries to soothe him, even as the Not-Lance outside continues screaming Keith’s name, “Babe, Keith, look at me,”

Keith looks at him, eyes wide. They dart to the side as the screams continue. 

There are tears in his eyes. Keith is terrified. 

“Shhh,” Lance crawls in Keith’s lap. It mirrors their position from before, but it’s so so different. He has his hands on Keith’s face, carding through his hair. Keith is shaking. 

Lance’s mouth is so dry can can barely get the words out, he has chills, he feels sick. “I’m fine. We’re fine.” 

Something runs past the tent. 

It’s close enough to brush against the canvas as it runs past, footfall loping through the trees. 

There’s a muffled crack---the sick sound of a rock smashing against a human skull---followed by the sound of a body collapsing to the ground. And the not-Lance falls silent. 

Keith whimpers. 

Lance opens his mouth,

But his voice dies in his throat as the children outside quiet their giggling. And start to sing. 

This time the song is all too clear:

_ “See, see my playmate,”  _

_ Come out and play with me,” _

Lance is frozen. 

The chorus of children’s voices is crystal clear in the still night air, 

_ “And bring your dollies three.  _

_ Climb up my apple tree,  _

_ Slide down my rain barrel  _

_ Into my cellar door,”  _

Oh god, they’re closer now. They’re touching the tent, Lance can see the shadow of their handprints. 

_ “And we’ll be jolly friends  _

_ Forevermore.”  _

This close, the timber of their voices is not right. Their laughter is manic. And their movements, jerky, stilted. 

Lance closes his eyes as the song continues, pulling Keith against him. He doesn’t know if it’s for his own benefit or Keith’s. He doesn’t know if the pounding heartbeat is his own or Keith’s. 

_ “See, see my playmate,  _

_ I cannot play with you,”  _

The voices stop as abruptly as they began. 

There’s no more footfall. As if the children have simply vanished into thin air. 

And, as he pulls Keith ever closer to him, the only thing Lance can think is,

_ Please tell me it’s almost dawn.  _

*

In the morning, 

Lance wakes up first. Keith is curled against him. He never released his grip on Lance’s arm, even after falling asleep. Even hours after the voices. 

Lance closes his eyes. He can’t think about that. 

It’s daytime. Nothing bad has happened during the day. 

(Not yet, at least.) 

He lays there, under Keith’s heavy and familiar weight. He’s warm in the sleeping bag. Keith is here. They are safe. 

(For now.) 

Keith stirs. 

Lance runs a hand through his hair. “Mornin’ sleepy head.” 

Keith presses his face against his chest. He wraps Lance up in the tightest hug. Says something against his shirt. 

Lance pulls in a shaky breath. He forces a smile to make his voice steady: “So on the menu today, I have a big stack of chocolate chip pancakes. Extra whip cream. Bacon and eggs. And a cup of coffee that’s so sweet you’ll be gagging.” 

“Lance,” Keith’s morning voice is gruff. “Stop.” 

“Well, Keithy, if you would have let me bring the waffle iron…” 

Keith sits up and glares at him. It’s not very imposing considering how his bedhead is making his bangs stand straight up off his head. 

(Lance is choosing not to focus on how red and puffy his eyes are and how his lips are bitten chapped and how Keith still has a hand on his arm...) 

Lance gives him the sweetest, most innocent smile. 

Keith caves. “Fine. Next time---” 

“Dude.” Lance sits up. “If you think I’m ever going camping again---” 

Lance stands up, gently extracting himself from Keith’s grip. He rummages through their stuff for sweatpants and a coat. He opens the tent to step outside, 

“You think after this I’m even going to  _ look _ at a tent? There’s no fucking way. After this nightmare? No. Fucking---” 

Lance falls silent. 

“Lance?” Keith pokes his head outside the tent following Lance’s gaze. He startles, scrambling away with a curse. 

There’s a doll. 

It’s propped up in a sitting position, head turned at a strange angle. 

As if its neck is broken. 

And it’s looking right at them. 

Lance inhales. “Keith,” He says what both of them are thinking: 

“We can’t spend a third night in these woods.” 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘See, See My Playmate’  
I assume most people are familiar with this nursery rhyme, but if you are not: it’s a clapping game for kids. Here’s a video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mOvy1BhRDBE
> 
> One chapter left!!


	4. 'Til Death Do Us Part

***

Keith is leaning against a tree trunk. He has his arms crossed, his eyes downcast, his jaw clenched. 

His dark hair is falling in his face. There’s a cigarette between his index and middle finger that he seems to have forgotten he lit. 

Combined with the whole dark clouds rolling in overhead and the creepy haunted forest all around, it sure is A Look. 

Lance goes up to a tree next to his and does his best Broodiest Guy Who Ever Brooded impression. He screws his face into a frown. He crosses his arms, leans against the tree (even though it’s way uncomfortable), ruffles his hair so that it hangs over his forehead, and sticks his fingers out like he’s smoking. 

It takes Keith a solid six minutes to notice. 

When he does finally look over to Lance, he frowns, tilting his head at Lance’s contrived posture. He looks down at himself and then back to Lance. He sighs, straightening up, “Lance---” 

Lance takes a loooong, angsty drag of his imaginary cigarette, blows out the imaginary smoke, and tosses his head. “Lance,” he echoes. 

“Really?” Keith asks, unimpressed. 

“It would make a good video, Lance,” Lance says in his best imitation of Keith’s voice. He sounds like Christian-Bale-as-Batman except he’s also eighty and has a head cold. 

Keith snorts. 

“We should go into the woods,” Lance continues, rasping away. “We should tell the monster ‘Hello, we’d love to meet you.’ We should---” 

Keith laughs. 

Lance drops the act and slides up to Keith close enough to plant a kiss square on his mouth. Keith leans into him. He’s still shaken from the night before---it’s made obvious just how much in the way he holds Lance a little tighter. Kisses him a little more tender. He doesn’t want to let him go. 

Lance keeps it light, kissing over the edge of Keith’s mouth, fingertips playing at Keith’s temples. “What were you thinking about?” he says in his fake Keith voice. He presses Keith’s cheeks together to give him a fish face. 

Keith grapples with him, squirming until he can press a hand over Lance’s grinning mouth, “Stop it, Lance!” 

Lance licks his palm and Keith shouts, ducking down to escape. He’s hiding a laugh. 

“No really, dude. That was a serious face. I know my Keiths. That was a thinking face. Tell me.” 

Keith sombers. “Yesterday we did the logical thing: following the map and the compass. We tried to get back to the car. But, did it work?” 

Lance spreads his arms out, and prances around their campsite, as if he is a game show announcer revealing fabuuuulous prizes. “Not a fucking bit.” 

Keith nods. “Today. I--Maybe.” His voice steadies with resolve. “We need to do the opposite.” 

Lance drops his arms. He does  _ not _ like the sound of that. 

“We need to go to _ It. _ ” Keith continues, emphasizing the  _ It. _ “I think if we can find---” 

Lance groans as Keith starts telling him that he has an idea where they might need to go. Deeper into the forest. Rumors of a village, burned down long, long ago. A curse. A witch. 

Wait. 

A witch?

The fuck?

Don’t you think that should have been mentioned earlier??

Lance signed up for ghosts. Maybe, maaaaybe, maybe cryptids. Like, friendly ones. (Bigfoot seems like a chill dude.) 

He did not agree to witches. He did not agree to curses. He did not agree to howling monsters. He especially  _ did not fucking agree _ to all three. 

This---

There is so much wrong with this, Lance doesn’t even know where to start!! 

He’s still reeling about the witch bullshit that he doesn’t even catch what Keith is saying. Something about the most direct route yadda yadda yadda---Lance interrupts anyways. 

“Keith. Keithy. Boss man. Dude. Babe.” Lance takes a deep breath. “You  _ never _ \---Why would we---” He shakes his head both hands buried in his hair. “There’s no way.” He frowns. Takes a step forward, starts to pace. “Okay and even if we  _ did _ \---just for shits and giggles, let’s consider it---we don’t know where to go?” 

Keith nods, going to his bag to rummage through it. “One sec, let me show you the book I’m using---” 

“Oh now he has a book!!” Lance says, slumping over, exasperated. 

Keith has not one, but  _ three _ books. (Why were  _ these _ necessities and the inflatable air sofa that Lance wanted to bring (complete with cupholders) was not?). They have sticky notes sticking out of the pages from where Keith has annotated the important bits. The one he pulls out to show Lance has yellowing pages and a cracked spine. It’s very old. Very witchy. Lance sighs. He does not like the look of this. 

“So, it’s not on the modern day map,” Keith lays out the map and the book side-by-side. “But if you cross reference this image,” he shows Lance an old map in the book, before leaning over to flip through yet another tome. “And there’s a historical account here that substantiates,” 

“Ooooh ‘ _ substantiates’ _ now I’m convinced,” Lance drones. 

Keith gives him an unimpressed look. “The point is, Lance. I know where we need to go and how to get there.” 

“Okay, but,” Lance feels slightly hysterical, “We walked  _ all day  _ yesterday and got  _ nowhere _ . How would we not get lost on the way there?!” 

Keith nods. He thought of that. He pulls something else out from his bag. A bundle. He unwraps it. 

Lance’s eyes go wide. 

Keith flips the hunting knife in his hand expertly. “We can mark the trees with this, so we’re sure not to get turned around.” 

Lance sputters. What the hell!! “Keith! Where was that yesterday?! More importantly!! Where was the bigass knife when the demon kids were around?!” 

Keith looks down at the knife in his hand like it will tell him the answer Lance wants to hear. He looks up at Lance. “In my bag?” 

“What good was it there, babe!!!” 

Keith shrugs like,  _ what kind of question is that? I dunno.  _

Lance raises his eyes heavenward and shakes his head like,  _ what the fuck is wrong with him?  _

“Okay.” Lance throws his head back and sighs. “Okay. At least we have a weapon. That’s good.” 

Keith looks offended. “We’re not here to fight, just to film.” 

“You can be here for whatever, Keith.” Lance tells him, severe. “As far as I’m concerned, they started it. If I see a witch, it’s certified Go Time. Lance is not here to play. If even  _ one _ of those kids shows their ectoplasm-y face around me, they can catch these hands.” 

Keith rolls his eyes. “Sure, Lance.” He scoffs under his breath,  _ ectoplasm _ . 

And so the plan is set. 

They pack up the camp. 

If everything goes according to plan, the next time they unpack it will be at home to put it away. 

Lance can only hope. 

Keith is putting things into his bag in a strange way, going around the opposite side of the tent, avoiding one corner completely. Lance watches him for a moment before he understands. Oh. 

The doll. 

They’ve avoided talking about it. The doll that appeared outside their tent this morning. 

It is blonde, with blue eyes, rosy cheeks, a blue dress. Tiny plastic hands caught mid-spasm, arms held outstretched. It seems to watch them, vacant eyes following them around as they clean up. 

Lance picks it up off the ground. 

“Lance!” Keith hisses. He hunches his shoulders and looks around. 

“What?” Lance asks. The doll is creepy because it showed up out of nowhere and is obviously haunted or some shit. But other than that, it seems like a normal doll. Brand new, even. Lance has been around enough kids in his family to know that doll hair doesn’t stay this nice, and shoes don’t stay on feet, and dresses don’t stay this clean for long. It’s probably special to one of the kids. 

“Put that down,” Keith says, still a hiss. 

“Nah.” Lance moves to tucks the creepy doll into his coat. 

“What are you doing?!” Keith flails his arms, in a very un-Keith like way. “Leave that here.” 

Lance shakes the doll in front of his face. “Listen. This is what we call  _ leverage, _ Keith.” At Keith’s blank look, he continues. “Have you ever interacted with a kid who wants their toy back? This is like, the ultimate bargaining chip. It might come in handy.” 

Keith still looks grumpy about it. “Whatever you say, Lance. Just keep it away from me.” 

“Can do, babe,” Lance says with a mock-salute. The doll is small enough to zip inside his coat pocket. 

They start off---now walking deeper into the woods. 

*

It turns out, getting lost on the way  _ into _ the forest is not a problem. 

Because with every step closer to their end goal, the land itself seems to  _ shiver  _ in anticipation. 

The clouds from the day before have darkened into something ominous, and a slight wind has picked up, swirling leaves over the ground. It breezes past, bending the trees forward, as if to say,  _ yes, closer.  _

_ This way,  _

_ Come closer.  _

They narrated their plans to the camera this morning. Took shots of the doll, the way it appeared out of nowhere. Filmed the children’s footprints in the soft soil around the perimeter of their campsite. The dirty handprints on the canvas walls of their tent. 

Since then, the cameras have been off. 

Partially to help increase their speed. If they want to make it out by nightfall, they’ll have to time things almost exactly right. After they reach the supposed village, it’ll be hours of hiking back to the car. 

Assuming this works. 

But partially, the cameras are off, because Lance isn’t sure he wants to focus on what’s happening around them. 

The big thing. The thing that makes the rumble. Or the “call” as Keith deemed it last night. 

It’s keeping pace with them. 

Lance keeps seeing it out of the corner of his eye----huge and black, like a shadow looming at the edges of his vision---before it disappears out of sight. It keeps changing, whatever it is---there’s the catch antlers one moment, like a massive elk stands between the trees. The next moment he’s seeing the broad shoulders of a bear, and the way it can walk on four legs, or raise itself up to stand on two. But most jarringly is the glint of eyes---the way they reflect light, like a cat’s. They are unblinking, shining white out of the dark between the branches, and then they are gone. 

The girls in the bar (god, that seems like a lifetime ago) they mentioned claws, footprints. They were wrong. 

It might have claws---it might---but it’s simply too fast to leave any kind of trace. It doesn’t make sense how it can be so big, and still travel through the forest almost undetected. 

Almost. 

Because now that they’re getting closer (to what, exactly?) the creature is getting louder. The piercing rumble punctuates their steps with a greater frequency. If Lance stops long enough to listen, he imagines he can hear even its breath: heavy and wet, the sick sound of spittle and fangs and lumbering wheezes as it follows, tracking them, 

Lance doesn’t stop long enough to listen. 

Lance stays close to Keith. 

He stays so close in fact, that when Keith halts in front of him, Lance smacks into his backpack with such force that both of them are nearly knocked to the ground. 

Keith stumbles and Lance trips and they’re both flailing for a minute until they right themselves. 

Lance straightens up, adjusting the straps of his pack, and he’s about to remind Keith that good hiking partners (in addition to not getting their cute cameramen lost in haunted woods, thank you very much,  _ tell people when they are going to stop, Keith _ ) when, 

Keith says, “Lance. Look.” 

*

It’s not a village. 

Maybe it used to be. Maybe a hundred years ago, maybe longer ago than that, there were houses here. Maybe these trees used to bear some semblance of community, humanity. 

(Lance can see traces of it as they get closer: a pile of stone here, a clump of rotten rope there, a sharp edge of metal worn by time, skeletal remains of cabins only half propped up between the tall trees. But,) 

Now, standing ruined between the trees, only one structure remains intact. 

It’s a black building. Black like soot, like wood that’s been licked clean and brittle by flames. Black like decay, 

Black like the beast that slips like smoke through the trees. 

The trees stop yards away from the walls of the building. As does the grass and the underbrush. It creates the feeling that the structure simply rose out of barren land and has stood untouched since. 

Keith takes a few steps towards the black house and Lance can almost time it down to the exact  _ second _ , 

The way Keith turns around, with that reckless, devastating look in his eyes, and says to him, “Let’s check it out.” 

Lance holds up the camera. His mouth is dry. “After you, Mr. I’m the One with the Secret Knife,” 

Keith grins. 

Lance closes his eyes, steeling himself just for a moment, and then follows Keith inside the black house. 

The first thing Lance notices, when he crosses the threshold of the building, is that it is warm. All day long, his nose and fingers and toes have been cold. They’ve been able to see each breath since they left the tent this morning. 

The floor creaks under his weight and the low ceiling makes it feel like the house was built for inhabitants shorter than he. It smells inside like spilt blood, rank and carrion, like death. And the air is hot. 

There’s no lit hearth, no windows for the sun to shine in, no reason for the floorboards and the walls to radiate heat the way that they do. It’s as though the structure is charged with its own energy. It feels malicious and wild and  _ strong _ . Lance feels like he’s breathing it in, like the black sooty wood is splintering in his lungs. It’s an aberrant, frantic kind of energy, one that creeps under Lance’s clothes and sends prickles across his skin. 

Keith is next to him. He has the thermal cam out. “The readings are really strange,” he’s telling Lance, eyes on the screen, 

And so Keith must miss the slide of boney fingers and they way they slip from the edges of the doorframe into the dark room to the left. 

But Lance does not. 

“Ke-ke-keith,” Lance tries to call, but his voice is caught in his throat. He can’t tear his eyes from that dark doorway. “Keith---fuck, Keith? Keith did you see that? Keith?” 

Keith doesn’t answer him, 

Lance steps backwards, still not taking his eyes from the door. He takes a step to the side. He reaches for Keith, in the spot where he was just standing, only to find that Keith is no longer standing there. Lance takes his eyes from the doorway into the dark room, only to find that Keith is no longer with him. There’s a rapid 

_ thumpthumpthump _

and Lance hears Keith’s voice from above him---

“Lance!” 

Lance’s heart is beating out of his chest and tears are in his eyes. “You---fuck---” His hands are shaking, “Keith? Did you---did you go upstairs? Are you up there?” 

“Lance!” 

Lance swears again, and backs away from the doorway, where black darkness seems to be bleeding into the room where he stands. He scrambles up the narrow stairs that line the longest wall of the structure. They are strangely spaced, too tall even for Lance’s long legs, and he nearly trips as he reaches the top---there’s no handrail or anything to separate him from falling into the room below. 

He manages to stay upright until he reaches the platform that makes the upper level of the house. 

And his call of Keith’s name turns into a sob. 

His legs give out. He falls to his knees with a crack against the floorboards, and horror punches the breath out of his chest. 

The top floor of the structure is all one room, the ceiling sharply angled due to the pointed roof of the cabin. 

And in the center of the room, laid out across the floor, there is an intricately designed circle. It is made of bits of wood, and rocks, 

and hair, 

and blood, 

and bone.

“What the---” 

And Keith is not up here. 

The smell of decay is overwhelming---copper and sulfur and rot. The heat here is stifling; the air is dry and charged like tinder ready to burst into flame. It’s choking, the smell and feverish temperature. It blisters his nostrils, burns down his throat. Lance retches, a dry heave. 

The artifacts are arranged in convoluted spiral. The center is a small pile of what might be ash, might be bone finely ground. Further out there are different bits and pieces as if scattered throughout time. Bundles of leaves, maybe herbs. A leather strap from long ago. A jagged bit of what looks like a rib. A nub of metal and wires that could have been part of a radio. He sees sets of teeth arranged in the circle---tiny, like from a child---but as his shaking hands pass the flashlight and the camera over the circle, there’s one thing that makes Lance’s heart drop: 

Keith’s gloves. 

“No, nonono---Keith---Keith? Where are you? Keith?” He lets out a string of expletives as the wind whistles through the rooftop. Outside the beast howls like cracking ice and bone and the house shudders around him. 

Lance edges around the perimeter of the room, avoiding touching any part of the circle. When he gets closer to the gloves, he notices something else. Sitting atop Keith’s gloves there’s two locks of hair. Keith’s dark hair is unmistakable, and it’s mixed with lighter, shorter strands. 

Lance raises one shaking hand to his head. When? 

When could it have possibly…?

Anger comingles with terror in his chest and, without thinking or caring of the consequences, Lance lurches forward to grab Keith’s gloves. Like hell this Thing is going to take Keith’s lame fingerless gloves. Fuck that and fuck this forest and especially fuck this house in particular!! 

Something crashes downstairs. 

Lance pockets Keith’s gloves and rises to his feet. He turns the camera to himself, wets his lips, and tells it, “We’re getting the fuck outta here, folks. Now.” 

Carefully sidestepping the rest of the circle, Lance crosses back the way he came to reach the top of the stairs. He takes a deep breath and starts down the stairs, calling Keith’s name. 

“Keith! Fuck fuck fuck, Ke---Where are you?!!” 

The house is deathly silent. 

The doorway to the back room bleeds black. 

And then Lance hears a scuffle and a slam of a body against a wall. 

“Keith!” Lance raises his flashlight to the dark room and imagines that he sees the two glints of light from before looking back at him. The light from his flashlight seems to get eaten up as soon as it passes into that room---it cannot penetrate the darkness, like the night itself is housed there. 

Lance sets his trembling jaw and walks through the doorway.

It’s a bedroom, maybe. The remains of what might have been a straw mattress, a quilt, a bedframe, lie collapsed against the wall. 

There’s a fireplace---cold and crumbling, not the source of the heat he feels---and one wooden chair, lying overturned on the floor. Other than that, the room is as devoid of life as the rest of the house. Lance flicks his flashlight into all the corners, cursing as the light barely catches against the walls, 

“Keith?” 

“ _ Keith?”  _ his own voice says back to him. 

It comes from directly behind him. 

Lance chokes out a sob. The flashlight wavers in his shaking hands. 

He turns around slowly. 

A woman with white eyes and charred skin looks back at him. Her mouth drops open---not like a human’s mouth, not the way her jaw hangs as if broken and her teeth are jagged fangs---and she repeats herself, crystal clear: 

_ “Keeeiith?”  _

Lance drops the flashlight. 

It clicks off. 

It’s too dark to see what happens next. 

He hears it----her nails over the floor, on the walls, she’s circling him, not entirely upright, but with that same depraved motion that rushed past their tent. 

He can hear a hum in the back of her throat, and the popping crack of her bones as she moves. Shifting into something else. 

And then, 

There’s a muffled smash from outside the darkness and the clearer sound of wood breaking. 

Without warning, the air is physically punched from Lance’s lungs. 

Without warning Keith slams into him---his whole body slams into Lance with enough force to knock them both to the floor. 

The woman jumps down----Lance can hear the smack of her feet hitting the floor close to his face and the rapid footsteps that follow. 

He’s shouting, and Keith is shouting, and the woman, the creature, is howling its terrible call. The black house shakes under them. Around them. 

Keith has a hand running over Lance’s face, his arms, his chest. He’s choking out each breath as if terrified, as if in pain. 

“Keith?” Lance asks, instinctively trying to sit up and reach for him in the dark. 

Keith chokes at the sound of his voice. His hands stop and Lance hears the tiny click of his lighter. 

The small circle of light barely touches the darkness, but it’s enough for Lance to make out how Keith’s eyes search his face, desperate. 

“It’s really you,” he chokes, hoarse. He pockets the lighter and pulls Lance against him, roughly enclosing Lance in his arms. 

“The one and only,” Lance breathes, caught against him. The room is quiet now, but Lance scrambls to his feet and pulls them blindly in the direction of the door. 

They stumble out of the house, blinking against the sunlight, weak though it is through the clouds. 

They stumble out, past the dark threshold, past the barren perimeter, out of the remains of the village, back into the trees. 

“Keith, what happened,” Lance asks him, as Keith pulls him tight when Lance tries to see his face. He can feel that Keith’s cheeks are wet against his neck. 

“You left.” Keith says simply. 

“I didn’t---” Lance starts to say, 

“Or--I don’t---I thought you did---I was alone. I was trapped. I heard you---Lance.” One of Keith’s hands finds Lance’s and he squeezes. “It was like it was last night. I heard you, and I thought.” 

Keith swallows, thick. “I thought something happened to you.” 

“Oh Keith.” Lance kisses the top of his head as Keith holds him tighter. They stay like that, tucked tight together, until their hearts stop hammering so loud, and Keith stops sniffling against him, and Lance is sure of the quiet that’s settled over the forest. It’s a normal kind of quiet, not at all the hush that’s been following them since this morning. 

Lance eventually wiggles one arm out of Keith’s grip and presses a reassuring hand to the crown of his head. “How many times have I told you, Keithy? No splitting up.” 

Keith snorts, wet, against Lance. “Too many.” 

Lance rocks them back and forth. “Too fucking many, Keith.” He extracts himself from Keith’s deathgrip. He mimes punching, a one-two-hook. “Okay, but at least tell me you gave that witch a taste of your secret knife?” 

Keith frowns. “What?” 

“You know,” Lance waves his hand. “The secret knife that you keep in your bag that’s just for filming. And not for fighting.” 

At Keith’s blank look Lance continues, “You know the knife you---” 

“No, Lance. I got that. But what witch?” 

Lance’s mouth drops open. He turns and motions to the house with both arms outstretched. “Uh, the motherfucking witch who’s been murdering kids and ruining our lives and almost killed me? By the way, hotshot, I found your gloves.” 

Keith takes the gloves from him and slides them on. “What? You saw her? When? Did you have the camera? See if you can play back the footage and----” 

“Nope!!!! Nope!!!” Lance shakes his head and starts walking away. Far far away from that house and back to the car. 

*

It starts to snow. 

The big flakes fall through the treetops and begin to blanket the forest in white. Keith walks ahead of him, and Lance watches the way his footsteps gradually begin to leave a print as the snow accumulates. 

He looks back, but the snow is falling fast enough that even just a few meters behind him, his own footsteps are being swallowed up. They’ll leave this forest without a trace. 

It’s somehow comforting, like the quiet that blankets the forest along with the white. There’s just the steady crunch of their boots in the snow and Keith’s regular breaths ahead. 

The walk is long and they should be exhausted, but Lance’s heart feels more at ease than it has in days. 

They find the trail just as light begins to ebb away. 

From there, it’s a short distance, the tree cover is getting thinner and thinner and then, finally, at long last, 

“The car!” Lance hollers, skipping and running ahead of Keith. 

“We made it,” Keith agrees, tucking the compass and the map back inside his coat. He taps the snow from his boots and claps his hands together to keep warm while Lance finds the keys. 

Lance pulls the keys out of his bag with a triumphant shout. They pile up the camping and filming gear in the trunk, slam it shut and climb inside. 

“Next stop: home!” Lance says, gleefully shoving the keys in the ignition. 

He turns the key over. 

Keith stops, hand still on the buckle of the seat belt. He looks up at Lance. 

Lance laughs, a short, nervous giggle. “Don’t give me that look, Keith.” He tries again. 

The car doesn’t start. 

“I’m sure it’s just---” Lance feels close to hysterics. He turns the key again. “I know it will---” 

Keith takes a deep breath beside him. “Lance,” 

Lance swallows. He might cry. The trees are tall around the car. This far out, they still don’t have cell service. 

The darkness starts to fall. 

“The battery is dead,” Lance says. He doesn’t know what their next move should be. If they get out of the car and walk, it’s miles through winding forest roads until they reach the town below. 

And the snow is falling. 

And the roads are dark. 

And now he knows what waits between the trees. 

“The battery is dead,” Lance says again. “Nothing---” 

There’s a sharp snap as all four car doors unlock at once. Lance shouts in surprise. 

The radio display illuminates.

The radio hums to life, static deafening in their ears. Lance reaches forward with a shaking hand to turn the volume down, but the static screams and Keith grabs his hand, and 

The voices come through: 

_ “----aymate,  _

_ Come out and play with me,  _

_ And  _

_ Bring  _

_ Your  _

_ Doooolllliessssssss Th----” _

The song morphs into a drawn out  _ grooooan _ as the children’s voices warp into something no longer recognizable as human. 

The headlights abruptly illuminate and Keith gasps and Lance is swearing a steady stream of fucks under his breath with tears in his eyes. 

The kids are there, but they’re not. Their footprints track around the car, and Lance and Keith can hear them---singing, clapping, crunching through the fresh snow. Lance can see movement out of the corner of his eye, can see the faintest glimpses of shapes that twist through the headlights. 

And behind them, tall amongst the trees, black like the shadows save for those white eyes, the beast is waiting. 

“Lance,” Keith says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “The doll.” 

It takes a moment for the words to register, but then Lance is unzipping his pocket with shaking hands. 

Keith takes it----doll in one hand and camera in the other---and opens the passenger side door. 

Lance sucks in a breath. No splitting up. 

The meet in front of the car. Lance is standing at his side as Keith holds the doll up and then places it at the edge of the forest. 

“We’re leaving now,” Keith says, voice firm and carrying. He has the camera out in front of him. “This is your last chance to make your goodbyes before we go.” 

They listen as the clamor of movement around them gradually dies down. Lance has Keith’s hand held tight in his own. The shadow retreats into the forest as the children’s voices fade. Together, they stand in the beams of light from their car, and watch the snow slowly cover the doll in a layer of white. 

*

Many, many hours of driving following one night in a (wonderfully bland) motel later, Lance tosses his boots to the side of the door, shrugs off his heavy pack, and throws his car keys in the general direction of the key dish. He picks up a pink note that’s been left sitting on their kitchen counter: 

_ Welcome home~!  _

_ Red and Black were absolute darlings while you were away. Nothing to report, just lots of cuddles and playtime. Oh, just one thing, I noticed your lovely houseplants needed a bit of perking up, so I did take it upon myself to give the poor things some extra TLC. I helped myself to the three boxes of Girl Scout cookies stashed in the back of the freezer in payment. ;) Consider us even, loves.  _

_ Allura  _

Keith, reading it over Lance’s shoulder, lets out an angry huff next to Lance’s ear. 

He stalks over the freezer and yanks it open. And huffs again. 

“Chill, dude,” Lance tells him. He can practically hear Keith grinding his teeth in irritation. “Kim, Khloe and Kourtney really  _ are _ looking better.” (The poor Plantdashians were doomed from the moment Lance brought them home, but it seems that Allura has the power to bring things back from the dead. Borders on magic, honestly.) 

“It’s just.” Keith runs a hand through his hair and tries not to look pouty. He fails. “I was  _ saving _ them.” 

“I know you were, babe,” Lance says, kissing his cheek in consolation. He winds his arms around Keith’s waist and gives him a squeeze. “Next time we’ll get Hunk to cat sit.” 

“Hunk will eat the thin mints and leave the plants dead,” Keith grumbles, shrugging Lance off. He moves to unpack their shit. 

“Shiro?” Lance offers. 

Keith picks up Black---she’s been winding around his ankles since he stepped in the door---and gives her a smooch between the ears before cradling her in his arms. “No. You know Shiro has a vendetta against Black ever since she locked him out of the apartment that one time.” 

(Despite hearing the story numerous times, Lance still doesn’t really get how that’s possible. But Shiro  _ is  _ tremendously petty. Definitely holds a grudge.)

Lance stretches and yawns. This is a problem for another Keith and Lance to figure out. “Well then, guess we just won’t leave again ‘til we make some new friends.” 

Keith snorts. “I’ll just pay Pidge.” 

Lance imagines a horrible scenario in which Pidge builds a cat-sitting robot and somehow manages to rope Red and Black into an intergalactic plot of epic proportions. “I dunno, Pidge seems pretty busy.” 

Keith shrugs. 

The two work in tandem to unpack what needs to be unpacked and leave the rest of the stuff in a tornado of camping gear over the floor of their living room. They’ll sort and organize and put things away later. 

For now Lance’s only plan is to take the longest, hottest shower of his life, and then curl up next to Keith in their bed. 

*

“Babe.” Lance sits up. He was fully in lounge mode---all fresh and clean and moisturized and ready to sleep. But. He leans over from his spot in their bed to look at Keith. “What the fuck is that?” 

“Huh?” Keith is also freshly showered---towel around his waist, dark hair damp and curling over his shoulders. He looks behind him, into the bathroom. “What? What is it?” 

“No.” Lance says, sliding out from under the covers to walk over to Keith’s side. He moves him, one hand on Keith’s upper arm, gently turning his body to get a better look. “I’m talking about this.”

Keith’s shoulder is black and blue. The bruise extends to his back, past his shoulder blade, almost to the midline of his spine. 

“You’re hurt.” 

“Uh.” Keith looks from Lance’s hand on his arm up to Lance’s troubled expression. “I might’ve...broken down a door.” 

“What?!” Lance shrieks, earning a wince from Keith. “When!?” 

“In the house.” Keith clarifies. “When we were separated.” 

“Shit,” Lance curses under his breath. He carefully moves Keith’s arm, watching for signs of discomfort, but Keith remains unruffled. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Keith makes a confused face like it never even occurred to him that he should mention it. “After all the stuff I heard. Y’know. I was just glad you were okay.” 

“Yeah, but. Are  _ you  _ okay?” Lance asks, raising one eyebrow in question. 

Keith nods. He touches Lance’s wrist. “I’m just glad to be home.” 

Lance leans forward to kiss against the unblemished skin just below Keith’s collarbone. He’s radiating warmth, skin supple from the shower’s humidity. Keith shifts as Lance kisses open mouthed to the hollow at the base of his neck. He lifts his head, one hand working at drawing Lance close, the other finding its way into Lance’s hair, fingers freely tangling in the freshly showered strands. Lance knows that Keith loves it when his hair is all floofy like it is now, free of the product Lance normally uses. 

Keith’s hand slips down his neck, sliding down Lance’s arm, to pull him along as Keith steps backwards to the bed. He finds the edge and sits, solemn eyes beginning to smolder as Lance pulls the tee shirt over his head and pushes down his boxers. Keith's hands are on his hips, guiding Lance down with him as Keith lowers himself to his back. His mouth works at Lance’s, lifting his head off the sheets to continue kissing him as Lance moves to pull the towel from around Keith’s waist.

Lance is over top of him, spreading kisses over his neck, his lips, his chest. Heated nips, heavy breaths. Lance revels in it when Keith sighs out against his touch, relaxed enough to let Lance take the lead. Keith is a dedicated lover; often his focus is more on Lance than himself, but on the rare occasion like this, Lance is able to turn the tables. 

Lance’s mouth parts from Keith’s and he licks his lips. He has one leg hiked up to settle his thigh on Keith’s hip, gently rut against him, skin-on-skin, while they kiss. He sits back, purposefully ignoring the pretty flush of Keith’s cock between them, and says, 

Innocent, 

“It’s been a long day, babe. You’re tired. You’re injured. I should let you sleep.” 

Keith all but growls out irritation under him. “Lance.” 

Lance feigns confusion. “What?” 

“I swear, if you---” 

Lance shushs Keith with a couple fingers on his lips. “No swearing, Mr. I’m Basically an Invalid and I Don’t Even Tell Anyone About It. We’re trying to sleep,” 

“You---” 

“Me.” Lance says, gleeful. He sits back. 

“Hey Keith,” he says, enjoying the way Keith’s dark eyes follow his mouth----Lance is settling between Keith’s legs, and he mouths kisses to the tips of Keith’s fingertips, the palm of his hand, before he begins to suck a hickey into his inner thigh. “I’m fucking you tonight?” 

Lance doesn’t miss the way Keith’s eyes go darker, and how his lips press together before he opens his mouth, “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s---” 

What ever it  _ is _ gets lost as Keith drops his head back to the bed. He has his hands on himself, obviously enjoying the idea of Lance topping. 

Generally, they both prefer the opposite---Lance craves the feeling of Keith all around him, filling him, that ever present fire stoked and hot and vibrant, burning just for him. The way Keith swears while he pushes into Lance, fucks him heavy and strong and devoted. Lance could never get enough of that.  _ Will  _ never get enough of that. 

But these past few days saw Keith shaken. Scared. Injured. And right now, everything in Lance is craving to settle deep inside him. To reassure them both. To comfort, to soothe. 

Keith is impatient as Lance leans over him, grabbing the lube out of their bedside table, “Lance--” He moves to take the bottle from Lance, but Lance is already running steady hands over Keith’s thighs. He shoos Keith’s hands away. 

“Nope, no.” Lance warms the lubricant in his hands. He takes Keith’s cock, already heavy and hard, and tells him, “Let me, let me, babe. I want to.” 

Keith complies, fingertips digging into his own thighs as he spreads his legs wider. He’s still too tense. 

Lance keeps his touch light, brushing over Keith’s hole without pushing inside, just getting him nice and slick. “Honestly, you’re just too talkative Keith,” he says, airy, like he isn’t keeping his eyes trained on Keith, trying to gauge exactly how he’s feeling. He mutters something like,  _ didn’t even tell me about busting down a door, practically shattering his own shoulder, shit…. _

Keith huffs, not quite a laugh. 

“Can’t ever get you to shut up,” Lance continues, beginning to press in with a finger. 

Keith groans. 

“So articulate,” Lance shakes his head, continuing with his casual commentary, like he isn’t moving against Keith’s rim and deeper, beginning to finger fuck him as he vents. “Sometimes, people ask me, what do you love most about your boyfriend, and I just tell them: god, it’s got to be how  _ articulate _ he is,” 

Keith body shakes but this time it’s because he’s laughing.

“Just---” 

“I mean,” Lance ruthlessly cuts him off, ranting and talking over Keith, even as he gently tests whether Keith can handle another finger. “The communication from this guy! Half the time I can’t get a word in edgewise!!” 

Keith is more relaxed now, body humming with laughter and the stretch of Lance’s fingers. “You--hn, Lance, that’s g-good---you talk enough for both of us.” 

“Mmm,” Lance disagrees, mouthing now along the underside of Keith’s dick. The tip is already glistening with pre, and Lance indulges himself, licking upwards. Keith stutters something out. 

“No joke, for real, babe,” Lance says, a little breathless at the taste and the feeling of him. He continues to work his fingers and adds another, “Wish you talked more. All the time. I fuckin’ love your voice.” 

Keith arches as Lance brushes his prostate. “Lan--ce,” 

“Love the way you sound, like this,” Lance continues, mouthing down his thigh. 

Keith inhales. 

Lance lifts his lips from Keith’s skin. He presses deep inside, “Come for me,” 

Keith doesn’t whine, but his voice is thin, reedy. “No---Wanna. Lance---wanna, while you’re. Inside.” 

Another blurt of pre glistens over Keith’s slit. Lance is good at a lot of things, but he is especially good at disagreeing with Keith. He twists his fingers just so, massaging the pad of his middle finger just right inside Keith, and swallows down Keith’s leaking cock. 

Keith shudders and swears and he’s coming, bitter and strong across Lance’s tongue. 

“You’ll be more relaxed after,” Lance gives the belated counter argument. He wipes his mouth with the hand not otherwise occupied and gives Keith a wink. 

Keith’s chest heaves. “You--Lance,” 

Lance pulls his fingers out to touch himself. Fuck, he’s hard, he’s so hard. “Keith,” he says, almost whining. 

“C’mere,” Keith motions, drawing Lance forward to kiss him. He’s sitting up on one elbow, mouth hot and slack and urgent. Lance pitches forward, and they both swear at the feeling of Lance’s cock between them---Keith because he’s oversensitive, and Lance because he’s over horny. 

“Fuck,” Lance breathes into Keith’s mouth, hips rocking against his, messy in lube and saliva. “How, fuck, Keith, how do you want---” 

Keith has a hand on the back of his neck, and Lance can feel the way his fingers tighten. 

“Like this,” he says, shifting his weight under Lance. He hooks a leg around Lance’s waist. 

Lance positions himself, cockhead against Keith’s entrance, looking to Keith’s face before he pushes in. He finds Keith’s expression just then---the slight wrinkle between his brows, half in anticipation, half impatient, the way his lips are slightly parted, the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows down another iteration of Lance’s name, 

Lance takes in his expression, utterly beautiful, and slides into his hot, tight heat. 

And then everything is Keith. 

Keith underneath him, body drawn out, hands splayed over Lance’s arms, his shoulders, the sheets. Keith’s fingers slipping under the headboard, back arching. 

The gorgeous rasp of his voice has dropped to velvet, and he’s saying Lance’s name. 

“Lance, so--good, fucking me---s-so---” 

Keith’s chest, the way his dark nipples are peaked. The clench of his abs, the muscles in his thighs, 

Lance is leaning over him, ‘til he’s pressed into the bed. He’s careful to avoid weight on Keith’s injured shoulder as he kisses against Keith’s neck, sighs and teeth and lips over his skin. He brushes the hair off his forehead, fingers light over Keith’s widow’s peak, the dark curls that frame his face. Lance is working in a steady rhythm, fucking him full and long and hard, 

He recognizes the way Keith’s eyes are going glassy, tears at the edges. The slackness of his mouth. 

“Keith--” Lance groans, close, but not yet. 

He sits up, tugging Keith up into his lap, quieting his own babbling. Fucks him fast, hard, making Keith grit out his name, stutter for more, more, more. Lance bites his lip, slowing to almost methodical thrusts. He wants to make this good for him. He wants the last bit of tightness in Keith’s expression, that little line of worry---to be completely gone. He works to fuck Keith out of himself, ‘til he’s lost in the feeling and comes apart.

And. 

Keith is looking up at him, not quite focused. He blinks, and smiles. And says Lance’s name. 

Lance comes at that---the sight of Keith shaky and undone and beautiful under his hands. 

He wraps a palm around Keith and now Keith is crying out his name instead, 

Clenching around him, 

Spilling over his hand, 

Muscles utterly lax as his breath finally begins to slow. 

Lance gathers him against his chest, not ready to part, not yet. 

Keith has his arms around him, his face pressed against Lance’s chest. And all Lance can think is: 

It’s good to be home. 

*

_ “If you listen to the recording once more, with the background noise lessened, and the sound just slightly amplified, you can hear a distinct voice. I’ve reviewed the footage numerous times...here it is again, this time with proposed subtitles…”  _

Keith turns off the video. “Please, Lance.” He moves to close the window. 

Lance leans over Keith’s lap from where they’re sitting side-by-side on the couch, and stops him. “No, no, I like this one!! You get really excited about the ghost saying ‘peppercorn.’” 

Keith looks pained. And grumpy. “It seemed significant at the time.” 

They originally sat down to begin editing the massive amount of footage from the Sugar Hollow shoot, but. Truth be told, even now, a week later, the footage they shot there feels a little bit too fresh. Especially that night in the tent where Keith was terrified. The experience is still too raw for Lance to watch comfortably---and, sensing Lance isn’t into it, Keith was easily distracted. One thing led to another, and now they’ve gone down the proverbial rabbit hole: rewatching old videos from the beginning of their channel. 

Lance clicks on another one of red_lion_haunts’ earlier vids. In this one, Keith is still by himself, and he’s visiting an old school. In the basement, amongst boxes of records and dusty stacks of textbooks, something moves. 

“Shit!” Lance shouts, pulling Keith’s laptop closer to him so he can see the screen better. (He’s watched this one before, sure, but that doesn’t matter). “Keith, what was that?” 

_ “If there is something here with me, make yourself known,”  _ Keith says on screen. 

“The footage  _ is  _ pretty compelling,” Keith says, next to him on the couch. 

“I’ll tell you what’s compelling Keith: lookit that hair!!” 

Keith (on screen) turns and there’s a shot of his hair the way it was when the two of them first met: Short and messy around his face, longer in the back. Lance (on the couch) snorts,  _ basically a mullet. _

“It just grows that way,” Keith says, slightly defensive. 

“It’s so cuuuuute,” Lance coos. 

Keith scoffs. He’s getting embarrassed and trying not to show it. Lance can tell. 

Lance remiences on all those early videos he watched, drinking Keith in like nothing else. He leans in, brushing Keith’s now much longer hair to the side to press a kiss against his jaw, 

Keith narrows his eyes, watching the old video. Something happens and on-screen Keith gets intense and excited in the way that he does, and Lance smiles at the sight of it. Keith notices and elbows him. 

“Don’t make fun of me, Lance.” He says it with a half smile---the sardonic one he does before changing the topic. 

Lance teases Keith like it’s his job. But at the moment, he’s serious. “Not making fun.” He says it quiet, because he really isn’t teasing, not at all. He loves Keith. Like this---doing nothing, together, relaxed, comfortable. Like in the video---intense and excited and serious. And, just like the stars, a million other ways too. 

Keith next to him falls quiet. The next video auto-plays on the screen and Lance lets his head rest against Keith’s shoulder. It’s a Monday night, not quite late, but maybe they’ll give up on editing for today---they clearly aren’t making any progress. Lance has the next day off work, so they’ll have lots of time to look at it with fresh eyes in the morning. They have plenty of time. 

Keith must be thinking the same; after a few minutes, he closes the computer and sets it aside. Resting against him, Lance hears him swallow. 

Keith shifts at his side, slowly tilting forward, maybe to see if Lance is awake. Lance sits up and Keith looks at him, through messy hair, dark lashes. One hand drops down where it’s been fiddling with one of the studs in his ears. 

“Be right back,” he breathes, gently pulling himself out from under Lance to stand up. 

Lance raises his eyebrows. 

He watches Keith cross the room to take something out of his bag. The black bag that he carries with him everywhere---on every shoot, to every late-night-early-morning diner, for research trips at the library. Everywhere. Keith rustles through it, looks at Lance, takes something out. 

“What---” 

Keith sits back down on the couch. Lance moves back, just a little, to give him space to sit down, but Keith finds his hand. 

Keith takes a deep breath.

He touches Lance’s wrist, holding him there.

He’s trembling. 

“Keith---what---” 

Keith turns his palm over. Slips a small box inside. 

Lance is stunned. 

He opens his mouth, but his voice is lost. 

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he finds he has to take a breath before he can ask: “Keith. What is this.” 

He knows what it is. 

“I’ve.” Keith shifts, looking down, mouth working as he decides on the words. “I’ve been trying to find the right moment.” He looks at Lance. His smile is crooked. “This is it?” 

Lance sucks in a breath and when he releases it, it’s part sob and part laugh and part Keith’s name. He opens the box. The gold band catches the light and this time it’s definitely a sob that escapes. 

Lance closes the box and looks up to the ceiling, vision swimming. Keith is telling him not to cry, but he hardly hears it; his heart is loud in his ears. 

“Since when?” Lance chokes. 

Keith’s hand drops from where it’s been reaching for Lance’s face, to swipe away a tear, to settle a palm against his cheek, to steady him, to catch his mouth in a kiss. 

He looks blank. 

“When did you buy it?” Lance clarifies. 

“Uh.” Keith shifts, embarrassed. He blinks, but Keith is a terrible liar, and so he quickly caves: “Remember when you went to see your family for Christmas last year?” 

That was almost a year ago. 

That was only a few months after they started dating. 

“People always say I’m impulsive,” Keith says, and it’s stubborn and cranky and wonderful and  _ Keith. _ “But I know what I’m doing.” 

And Lance is laughing and crying and throwing himself forward to tackle Keith. 

Keith is smiling---that broad, guileless smile, where his eyes crinkle and Lance can see the way one of his teeth is just slightly crooked---and he breathes deep, and Lance can feel his whole body underneath him. “I love you,” Keith says. 

Just like that. Plain and simple. 

The feelings are too big for Lance’s chest and when he inhales to respond, the words and the air get caught. Keith is many things to him: his partner, his lover, his best friend. For now and for all the future. He knew it under the stars and he knows it now in a way that’s too intense to put into words. 

“Yes,” Lance tells him. Face against his neck. Smile against his skin. Hands in Keith's hair. It's an answer to a question Keith didn’t ask, but he never needed to. Lance is already his. 

*

A few weeks later, 

Lance parks the car in a forgotten alley. He turns the key. The engine dies. 

He looks over to Keith. 

Keith nods. 

Together, they open the car doors. 

Immediately, the sounds from the crowd drifts through the dark. There’s a live band, somewhere, and the soft sound of carolling weaves through the din of people. 

Lance finds his way to Keith’s side. He wiggles his hand at Keith with an expectant look. Keith tilts his head like,  _ really? _ , but then he smiles and links his fingers through Lance’s. 

“So you don’t get lost,” Lance tells him, mock serious. He lifts their hands to kiss Keith’s knuckles. (Just close enough to brush the black band on Keith’s left ring finger.) 

“I don’t think it will be all that crowded,” Keith responds, actually serious. 

They take the alleyway down a side street, walking towards the hazy light and the clamor in the street below. There’s a few houses---they’re downtown, but this residential area spills into the heart of the small city---and most of them have Christmas lights and kitschy decorations lighting the porches. 

When they reach main street, it’s clear that Keith underestimated the place: it is crowded. 

The street is closed; both sides are lined with booths---selling food, crafts, trinkets. Throngs of people, bundled in hats and coats and scarves, spill out of the booths. Kids, and families, but some couples too. Strings of yellow lights stretch from one side of the street to the other, a twinkling canopy over the crowd. 

The canopy is broken as Keith and Lance make their way further down the street. In the center square, a huge evergreen stands, beautifully decorated and lit all red and blue and gold. 

Lance whistles, craning his neck to see if there’s a star at the tippy top. There is. Keith bumps his shoulder, pulling him away. There’s a booth selling hot chocolate. 

The air is cold---Lance doesn’t really notice it until he and Keith find a bench outside the booths and the crowd. They settle in next to each other. Keith sips his hot chocolate and sighs. Content. 

Lance opted for a hot cider instead. It’s spiced and strong and sends the warmth right down to his toes. A good choice. He listens while Keith tells him about the history of the courthouse in front of which they’re sitting. Keith was researching old buildings in the area (because he’s a nerd) which is how he found out about The Festival of Trees in the first place. 

“Seems like there’s just one tree,” Lance says, breaking the comfortable silence that’s settled between them. 

“Huh?” Keith sticks a finger in his hot chocolate, swiping some of the whipped cream from the edge of the cup. 

“Festival of  _ Trees, _ but there’s just the big one,” Lance says, motioning to the huge tree in the center square, as if there could be any doubt about which one he means. 

“Yeah,” Keith agrees, sucking the whipped cream off his finger. He looks at the tree with a sort of suspicious air, eyebrows coming together into a frown. Lance finds himself smiling into his cider. 

After they finish their drinks and start to get truly cold, Keith pulls Lance from booth to booth, looking at the random things people are selling as holiday gifts. 

Keith wants to buy a cheesy plaque that goes on the wall and says HOME in big stupid letters and Lance lets him---just because he’ll make fun of it mercilessly later. 

(“Where else would we be, Keith? Why the fuck do we need a sign?”

“It’s just  _ nice, _ Lance.”) 

Lance wants to buy a wooden toy gun that shoots marshmallows. And is clearly meant for a child. Keith tolerates him. He'll regret it later when he discovers that Lance has stupid good aim from all corners of their apartment. 

They hold hands to stay close in the crowd. 

When they’ve seen all there is to see of the booths, and raided the baked goods stands from all the local churches, Keith pulls him down another street. It’s a short walk, just a couple more blocks. 

Keith pushes the wooden door open with a soft, “This is the place.” He tells the host ‘McClain,’ because he made the reservation under Lance’s name. 

The restaurant isn’t overly fancy; it has a quiet, relaxed atmosphere. There’s a fireplace roaring in the center. After they’re seated, Lance lowers the menu and curls a finger towards Keith. Keith lifts his eyebrows and Lance mouths the words,  _ ‘boy scout.’ _

Keith frowns and mouths back,  _ ‘what?’  _

And Lance snickers and the waiter comes to take their drink order. 

The food is good, even by Lance’s high, Hunk related standards. For dessert, they order chocolate mousse and Keith is delighted and Lance just thinks,  _ I love you. _

The stars overhead aren’t as visible on the walk back to the car. Not like in the woods. 

But Lance is caught between the warm feeling in his chest, and the sound of Keith’s voice. (He’s telling Lance their plans for the next shoot---they’ll be spending the night at an old vaudeville theater, where spirits are said to still roam the stage,) 

Lance is caught there---somewhere between the plans for tomorrow and the promise of forever and the right-now of Keith’s hand in his. The stars may not be striking, not in this singular moment. But as they walk back together, Lance looks up into the dark and admires them all the same. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3<3<3<3 
> 
> thank you so much for reading. leave me a comment if you like, it would really make my day <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be uploading a chapter every friday in october. aka keithtober aka the best month of the year! 
> 
> come haunt [my twitter](https://twitter.com/jacqulinetan) for a lot of keith retweets, the occasional spooky thing, and an extreme love of cats. 
> 
> thank you for reading!


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